by Ning Cai
“She was poisoned, of course.”
Everyone turns to look at Dr Aisha.
“An unfortunate victim of ichthyoallyeinotoxism, along with lethal doses of tetrodotoxin, which is over a thousand times more deadly than cyanide.” She fishes out her phone, her fingers busy typing something on the screen. “It was a violent and rapid death. As you can see, the deceased also suffocated and choked on her own vomit.”
Everyone remains silent, trying to process the science lesson.
“Itchyterratoxins?” Ashraf scratches at his cheek, trying hard to hide his attraction for the petite Malay woman but failing very badly. “English, please…doctor?”
“Ichthyoallyeinotoxism, Inspector Ashraf,” Dr Aisha patiently repeats, scrolling to show us pictures of an innocent-looking sea bream with yellow stripes. “Hallucinogenic fish inebriation from the consumption of certain species of fish, due to a specific type of algae they feed on. Psychoactivity from the ingestion of salema porgy. Scientific name, Sarpa salpa. Known in Arabic as ‘the fish that makes dreams’, it was a recreational drug in the Roman Empire and strangely enough, openly available from seafood restaurants and markets overseas today.”
Ashraf looks like he is in love.
Oblivious to her effect on the towering giant, Dr Aisha turns her phone over to show us an image of a sushi chef at work. “Concentrated levels of tetrodotoxin were also found in the victim’s blood. TTX is a potent neurotoxin found in puffer fish. Despite careful preparation, there are at least fifty deaths in Japan annually from puffer fish poisoning. FYI, that’s why the Japanese emperor is not permitted to eat fugu. There is no known antidote.”
Even Uncle Glen looks impressed. “So how did the Spectre do it? She seemed just fine when we saw her at church this morning. Was she force-fed tainted fugu sashimi?”
“Maybe she was injected,” CK says, scratching his chin. He bends down to study Mrs Lye’s face. “I saw on Reddit that heroin addicts sometimes shoot up through their eyeballs and toes to hide needle marks—”
CK suddenly sneezes explosively, nearly deafening me since I am right next to him.
Something tickles softly across my cheek and I brush it away. It floats back again, this time sweeping along my nose with a gentle caress. What the hell?
I reach out quickly and catch an invisible filament. Grasping it before it escapes me again, I carefully open my hand: a mysterious woolly grey-black thread, a single vertical line of fibre so fine that anyone would miss it unless you were specifically looking for it. The thread appears slightly elastic and extends upwards, high above our heads, while the other end comes down towards the bed.
CK stares at me strangely. “You okay?”
I must look like a mime. “I think I just discovered what’s been tickling our faces.”
Grabbing Ashraf’s muscular wrist from across me, I carefully bring his fingers to touch the delicate strand of fibre I found. Concentration knitting on his brow, the police inspector slowly traces the filament of thread down until we realise that it comes to an end above the victim’s wide-open mouth. We follow the vertical line up and notice a small, barely noticeable hole, like a pinprick, in the false ceiling just above the dead woman’s pillow.
Immediately, I understand how the Spectre killed his prey.
*
The filament, which looks like it was carefully extracted from pantyhose, tests positive for traces of the same concoction of poison in the victim’s system. Dr Aisha busies herself with swabbing our faces and hands clean with disinfecting alcohol.
“He’s so cunning,” CK says and shakes his head in anger. “Using a nearly invisible thread as the delivery system for a deadly poison? The Spectre may be crazy, but he’s a genius.”
Ashraf climbs down from the rafters above, dusting dirt clumps off the knees of his trousers, before handing over a clear evidence bag containing an empty plastic syringe to Uncle Glen, who is just walking back into the room.
“Affirmative, the poison was fed from above and the Spectre allowed gravity to do its job. There’s a crawl space up there just barely enough for me to move, and this is the only exit, so there’s no roof access. The maids ought to have seen him but no one has. And as usual, the Spectre left no prints.”
“I just realised something.” Uncle Glen narrows his eyes. “We’ve been given the four aces and an indifferent card. That’s four of a kind, a winning hand in poker terms.”
“Game over?” I ask, as CK starts sniffing the air. “So she’s the last victim?”
Before Uncle Glen can reply, CK makes a face and suddenly lashes out at his father. “There’s whisky on your breath, Pa.”
A flicker of guilt crosses the inspector’s face and gives him away. He doesn’t answer.
“You idiot,” Ashraf swears under his breath, his eyes incredulous. “On duty? At a crime scene? Bro, you gotta be kidding me!”
Someone clears their throat, interrupting us.
“Yes, Amberlyn?” Uncle Glen asks, trying to change the subject.
The police sergeant’s expression is grave. She carries a laptop in her hands. “I just reviewed the CCTV footage. You guys need to see what the security cameras recorded just moments after the victim’s time of death.”
We crowd around the screen and she strikes a key to play the recording. The security footage captures a prominent view of the front of the mansion. The main door opens and someone steps out. I point at the tall man in sunglasses with dust caked on his dark slacks. “Is that the Spectre?”
“Yes,” she says simply as we watch him shut the door and saunter out of sight. Amberlyn taps a series of keystrokes on her laptop, changing to another CCTV camera that provides us with a frozen close-up on the man’s face. “And I also found out why none of the maids or anyone else in the Lye’s household thought they saw the Spectre.”
The unmistakable face of the distinguished Pastor Lenny Lye stares back at us.
TEN
IT IS JUST A little past 7pm, that magic hour when the sun starts to set in Singapore and the skies become a gorgeous tapestry of purple, orange and red hues. After witnessing the terrible horrors another human being can inflict unto others, this very moment, where I can quietly witness the vibrant colours of light shifting above me as the sun dips below the horizon, helps lift my weary mood. The warm glow on my face reminds me of that mysterious bright white light that surrounded me as I lay helpless in the hospital, brain damaged, stuck in a three-year coma, hooked to a life-support machine.
But the respite is suddenly shattered by the angry voices behind me.
Outside the Lye family residence, CK pushes away the hand his father tries to put on his shoulder. “No, we have nothing to talk about.” Tearing off his intern jacket, CK flings it to the ground, along with the matching dark blue cap. “You clearly broke your promise to me. I’m done with you.”
Uncle Glen’s arm drops limply to his side as he watches his son walk away.
Ashraf reminds him through gritted teeth that they need to drive back to Headquarters to get an official arrest warrant for Lenny Lye. I leave them to catch up with my moody best friend, already a long distance away, turning left down the curved slope with his head bent low and hands deep in the pockets of his baggy cargo jeans. Looking around, I spot a possible shortcut. It’s been a while, but there is no better time than now to see if my muscles remember my parkour moves.
Rolling my shoulders and shaking out my hands as I jog in place for a quick warm-up, I exhale, making quick calculations in my head as I jump to check out the terrain ahead of me. “Okay, here goes.”
After a lazy vault over the painted green metal barricade next to me, I exercise a precision jump across the large uncovered monsoon drain, making use of momentum gained to quickly cat leap up the stone wall, balancing carefully along its top edge until I see a safe place to drop and land. I control my roll down the grassy slope, landing right in front of a startled CK, who almost drops his phone. “Dude!”
“Yay hey.”
I grin, poking my best friend in the ribs. “Caught you.”
“Are you crazy, Maxine Schooling?” CK scolds me. He picks dead leaves and dry twigs from my messy hair, smiling despite himself and resuming his walk. “You almost gave me a heart attack, you parkour princess.”
“Sorry not sorry,” I say with a wink, matching his long stride. “Talk to me?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” He kicks at a rusty can on the ground and it bounces away. “I texted Paul, Michael and Brooke, and we’re going to have a Halo night, so I can blow off some steam. I’ll come by your place later. Don’t forget, you promised to let me stay rent-free.”
I nod as a taxi approaches and CK flags it down.
Glancing down, I notice a crushed snail near his bright sneakers with Super Mario’s friendly moustachioed face on them. Before CK gets in, he hands me a brand new portable phone charger with an iPhone 4 charging cable. “Hey, I got this for you.”
I give him a tight hug. “When you want to talk about your dad, I’m right here for you, okay?”
His mouth pulls into a shy smile and then the taxi pulls away.
I plug my dead phone into CK’s charger, but the low rumble of an engine catches my attention: a silver Aston Martin with dark tinted windows and an expensive licence plate is slowing down as it comes towards me. However, before the approaching car can stop, a motorcycle coming from the other side of the road beeps its horn loudly. The rider opens the visor of her full-face helmet and I recognise the friendly face.
“Need a ride?” Amberlyn hollers at me, waving her spare helmet just as the silver car speeds away. I nod at the police sergeant, swiftly crossing over after checking both sides for traffic, wondering what that was all about.
*
“Welcome home,” Luce greets me the moment I walk through the front door.
CK was right. The cleaning lady did a fantastic job. I sigh happily as Albatross quietly limps up to me, pushing his cute pink nose into my hand. I refill his food bowl and bend down to scratch him on the head. My phone buzzes. It is a notification from the app that CK helped me to install. Looking up from my phone after checking out the angle, I notice the well-positioned security cameras that the guys set up.
Luce smiles her approval. “They did a great job. The cameras are really well-hidden.”
The house is still stuffy, so I open the bay window that faces the street to let in a breeze. I catch the scent of freshly cut grass from outside, and my tummy suddenly growls unabashedly like a famished tiger, reminding me that it’s dinnertime.
“Oh yeah, CK did say that Uncle Glen helped stock up the fridge.” Luce steps into the kitchen and I follow her. “You should whip up something for yourself before you faint from hunger.”
I yank open the freezer door, and we both sigh in unison as the cold air drifts gently onto our faces. Stacked generously before us is an assortment of ready-made meals. I go through the boxes of frozen pizza and packages of honey-glazed chicken wings before deciding on the ready-to-eat shrimp wonton in tom yum soup. I tear off the foil lid, add water, empty the powdered sachet of fragrant lemongrass, lime peel, galangal and shallots, and then put the whole thing in the microwave. Needing a pair of chopsticks and a Chinese soup spoon, I open the cutlery drawer; my little brother’s bright green light-saber chopsticks stare up at me. I quickly shut the drawer and busy myself at the sink.
“You know what’s been like super crazy weird, Luce?” I frown, before turning back to watch my dinner pirouette slowly in the lit microwave. “My memory lately has been pretty vivid. Like, I can totally recall specific details of stuff I’ve seen or read. Things from the Singapore Spectre’s files, for instance. Numbers. Dates. Stats. Addresses. Random info. And I wasn’t like this before. It’s like I’ve suddenly developed a photographic memory. I just can’t explain it!”
Luce sits down beside me, her pretty Chindian face serious as her eyes search mine. “Okay, let me get this straight, Max. So what you’re basically saying is that after waking up from your epic three-year coma, you have somehow transformed into a superhuman with special powers?”
We exchange a long, serious look but at the very moment the microwave chimes, Luce and I both burst into giggles like when we were kids. As I take my steaming food out and place it on a tray, Albatross pokes his head in the room and stares with a curious expression, cocking his shaggy head sideways as if wondering what just transpired between us girls.
“I dunno,” I say as we make our way back to the living room, where I make myself comfortable. “But something did change after my head injury.”
Luce shrugs, watching me as I start to scarf down my food. “Maybe. It’s very possible. Do you remember reading about acquired savant syndrome?”
“You know, that actually sounds very familiar,” I say, chewing with my mouth open. “I’ve definitely heard about it before. It’s like a term for people with serious brain damage who turn into sudden geniuses overnight, right?”
“Yes, they’re different from traditional savants, who are born with their gifts. There have been several documented cases, all very interesting. Some acquired savants can suddenly play the piano like a virtuoso, when they never knew how to prior to their accidents, or even learnt music theory to begin with. Or folks who recover from serious head trauma who inexplicably transform into incredibly talented artists and go on to create amazing masterpieces when they couldn’t draw to save their lives before.”
“Hmm.” I slurp down the spicy Thai soup, feeling the burn of the tom yum on my lips and down my throat, the shrimp wontons now in my happy belly. I push aside my empty bowl and belch like a well-fed caveman. I blink innocent eyes and pull a wide grin. “Okay, so I’m basically now like a female Rain Man with an eidetic memory. That’s a pretty cool superpower, right?”
“Right,” Luce says and gives me an enigmatic smile. “And you know what you need to do now, Maxine Schooling.”
“Nap?”
The smile fades into a look of admonishment.
“Even superheroes need naps, you know,” I start to whine. “I had a really, really tiring day, Luce. Seriously, I could sleep for a week.”
My bossy childhood friend stands with her hands on her hips, darting her perfectly lined eyes pointedly at my journal on the coffee table. Knowing that Luce is ever the voice of reason, I groan, reaching for my book and pen in disgruntled defeat.
“Okay. Fine. I’ll do it.” I roll my eyes.
“Good girl,” she says triumphantly as I twist the cap off my pen to start writing in my half-filled journal, as I was encouraged to do as part of my recovery process. During our last session before I was discharged from hospital, I was informed by the doctor who took over from Dr Wijeysingha that I had signs of post-traumatic stress disorder, and my PTSD could be manifesting in bouts of insomnia and an inability to cry.
Wondering what to write, I sit there, staring morosely at the silently mocking blank pages of my Moleskine diary. Luce leaves me to journal in private, and my hand slowly sets nib to white paper; before I know it, the words start to flow out of me. And I cannot stop even if I want to.
*
My phone is ringing, rousing me from a dreamless sleep on the sofa. The living room is now dark, making me ponder how long I slept. I pick up my phone, now fully charged, wondering what CK’s gaming buddy Michael Rodrigues needs from me at this time of night. Barely stifling a yawn, I pick up the call in the dark. “Hello?”
“Hi, Maxine. Sorry, I know it’s almost midnight, but we were just wondering, is your BFF with you?”
“Huh?” I bolt up and nearly trip over my dog in the process.
“Uhm, CK was supposed to come by my place, like, hours ago. But he’s not answering his phone and we haven’t been able to get a hold of him.”
“What the hell?” I start pacing the living room, my stomach turning flips.
“We’re just about to call it a night here and I just wanted to let you know cos all of us think it’s, like, really odd. CK’s
never like this. He’s always been Mr Responsible, that’s why everyone wants him in their group for project work. And it’s Halo night. No one misses Halo night. Wait, is CK in some kind of trouble? Is there anything we can do to help? Should we—”
“Thanks, Michael.” I interrupt him. “Text me your address? I’ll call you back.”
Michael’s right. CK is never like this.
*
“Chang Chun Kiat!” Uncle Glen yells through cupped hands as we comb the dimly-lit area around the void deck of Michael’s Yishun block. The hoarse desperation in his voice is crystal. “Chun Kiat!”
“CK!” I holler, joined by Michael and the rest of my best friend’s long-time gaming buddies. Uncle Glen said that CID has decided to ignore the standard rule of having to wait 24 hours before a person is officially declared missing, since there is a dangerous serial killer on the loose. Ashraf managed to get a warrant for the pastor, but Lenny Lye is nowhere to be found.
It is one in the morning and CK is still uncontactable. Calls to his phone get routed directly to voice mail and WhatsApp messages remain unchecked and unread. For a geek monkey who keeps his phone switched on all the time, it just doesn’t make sense. Everything about his sudden disappearance is suspicious.
A bespectacled plain clothes police officer with a pencil thin moustache stops for a cigarette break and looks at Uncle Glen. “Chang, you sure this isn’t because you and your son had a fight earlier over your drinking? Maybe your boy ran away from home. It’s so common these days, we get cases like this all the t—”
The man never gets a chance to finish. CK’s father is on top of him in an instant, punching him so hard that his glasses break. Ashraf shouts and runs over, dragging away his furious partner screaming profanities at the man on the ground.
“You’re not getting away with this, Chang,” the bleeding man growls, picking up his damaged spectacles and walking away. “Not this time.”