Hanash got up and headed out on his evening walk with Karet. The streets of Casablanca were nearly empty at this time of night, save for some inebriated drivers flying through the streets. He cut across Zarqatouni Street, one of the city’s main arteries, and passed by his central precinct. He wasn’t alarmed to see light coming from his office window, since he knew that the cleaning crew must be working. At the end of the street he turned onto a side street and let the dog off the leash. He wasn’t really aware of where he was going until he found himself in front of his daughter’s salon. No doubt she entrusted an employee with running the place while she was away. It was a beautiful place occupying a ground-floor storefront on March 2nd Avenue. There were neon lights blinking from behind the glass, even though the salon was closed. He had never been so generous as when he had financed this salon. He hired what seemed like thousands of people to renovate and equip the place. His generosity wasn’t only to satisfy his daughter, however: he’d used the salon to launder some of the small fortune he’d acquired in Tangier.
He stood in front of the salon, Karet panting by his side, and thought about everything that had happened recently. He thought about his firstborn, Atiqa. Raising her had been so much easier than Manar, but this was probably because Atiqa had married and left the house before Hanash’s newly accumulated wealth could influence her behavior, as it would her siblings. Atiqa grew up as they were struggling to make ends meet. She was born when he was just an officer. They were living in a dank apartment in a lower-class neighborhood, and he wasn’t able to pay the monthly bills without the meager kickbacks he got from low-end drug dealers and hustlers. These kickbacks were equivalent to tips a waiter in a café might receive. Maybe that’s why Atiqa became so obedient, like her mother. As he let himself wander down memory lane he found himself taking out his key to the salon. He had never told Manar that he had one made. He looked left and right, like a thief, and left Karet at the entrance to stand watch. A mixture of women’s perfumes and scented cleaning products assailed him as he entered. When he turned on the lights, he found himself next to a coatrack on which hung a bunch of white aprons used for hairstyling.
The elegance of the salon really surprised him—it had plush leather chairs, massive mirrors, and television screens scattered around. One of the screens had been left on, and it was playing an instructional hairstyling video. He watched a couple of scenes, as a male hairstylist combed, and then trimmed, a beautiful woman’s hair. He hesitated for just a second before making his way to his daughter’s desk, which was separated from the hairstyling area by a glass divider, allowing her to keep an eye on the entire place. He felt like a thief searching for something valuable, so he sat down on his daughter’s leather swivel chair and began rocking back and forth thinking about what do to. He didn’t have a good idea why he was there in the first place. His mind was scattered and he felt strange about intruding into Manar’s personal work space. He opened the top drawer of her desk and took a peek at the contents. He stiffened when he saw a photo of a handsome man. This was exactly what he had feared: finding something that would enrage him. He slammed the drawer closed. This wasn’t what he was looking for, but now his anger was stoked. He imagined his daughter embracing this guy right there in a salon financed by bricks of hash!
How many dark nights had passed, how many threats, and how many risks he had taken with his own life and his family’s future.
11
Detective Hanash arrived at his office at eight in the morning. None of his men had called the previous night, meaning there were no new developments.
He found all the daily newspapers on his desk. He started scanning the headlines and saw that every single paper had the crime on its front page, with contradictory details, as usual. What perturbed Hanash was that that one paper had printed a photo of the two victims, and gave details about the crime that could have only come from someone closely connected to the investigation. Who had leaked this information to the paper, and for what price? What pissed him off even more was that someone had taken his quote—“Wherever alcohol and debauchery mingle, crime is just around the corner”—without attributing it to him.
He pushed the papers aside and opened the case file in front of him. Except for some interrogation notes and photographs of the victims, it contained nothing new. There was still no mention of what had happened at Hotel Scheherazade. Today, he thought, had to be the decisive day in this investigation. A lot was riding on the testimony of the male victim’s friend, and if he didn’t show up, suspicion of guilt would fall squarely on him.
Hanash was in no hurry to summon his men for nine o’clock. He knew that they had worked several hours of overtime, and they weren’t even on the clock for these extra hours. No doubt Hamid had sent men to investigate Farqash’s alibi concerning where he was during the time of the murders.
At five past nine Hamid opened the door and gave a determined salute.
“Good morning, detective.”
Hanash returned the salute and motioned for him to sit down. He enjoyed the fact that Hamid dressed sharply, in an effort to imitate him. The main difference between their wardrobes was that the detective’s suits were all by famous designers, whereas Hamid wore the most fashionable imitation versions he could find.
“What’s the latest?” asked Hanash, moving the case file aside.
“What’s new is that Farqash’s alibi came back clean, one hundred percent,” he replied, rubbing his hands together. “I sent Bu’u and Miqla to Club Hufra, and several witnesses confirmed that he got there around one in the morning with Warda, the bartender from La Falaise.”
Annoyed, Detective Hanash slapped the back of his chair.
“We haven’t gotten the medical examiner’s report to verify the time of death,” Hamid said regretfully, “but Warda confirmed that Farqash didn’t leave La Falaise all evening, not for a single moment. Then they left together for Ain Diab in a taxi. A doorman who worked on the same street as La Falaise corroborated everything. He said he saw Farqash and Warda hailing a cab around one o’clock.”
“Keep him in temporary detainment anyway,” said Hanash firmly. “Don’t let him out until the twenty-four hours is up. Just in case we need him.”
Hamid also informed Hanash that the male victim’s father had arrived from Madinat al-Qala. Hanash dispatched Bu’u to take him to identify the body before bringing him in for questioning.
There was a knock at Hanash’s office door, and he opened it to find a security guard saluting him.
“A person with a summons is here, sir,” he announced, as if he were reading a news report. “He says his name is Abdel-Jalil Kazar.”
“Bring him straight in,” Hanash replied.
When Abdel-Jalil entered the office, the first thing that struck both Hanash and Hamid were his teary eyes, meaning he knew what had happened. They looked at him closely. He was a clean-cut man in his thirties, and was quite handsome. Hamid requested his national identity card and the summons. Hanash didn’t take his eyes off Abdel-Jalil, readying himself for an interrogation.
“All right,” said Hanash. “You’re crying, so you know what happened.”
Abdel-Jalil nodded.
“Who told you?” asked Hamid.
“I called the factory to tell them I’d be late coming in because of the summons, and the director told me what had happened to Said.”
He could no longer suppress his emotions and burst into tears. Hamid placed the identity card and summons on the desk and exchanged a look with Hanash.
“Where were you yesterday?” the officer asked, in an accusatory tone.
“I was visiting my family in Fez. I just returned this morning.”
“When was the last time you saw your friend?” asked Hanash.
“Sunday evening . . .” Abdel-Jalil’s voice trailed off, and he took a moment to compose himself. “Could I sit down?” he asked.
They didn’t answer.
“You were saying?” Hamid said gruffly.
“The last time you saw your friend was Sunday night . . . and?”
“After we finished work we went to go eat at Baaroub’s, like we always do when we get our wages at the end of the month. We ate together, and then around eight we went our separate ways.” He started choking up again. “If I knew what was going to happen, I wouldn’t have left him.”
Hanash interjected: “The girl who was murdered with him, Nezha al-Gharbi—did you know her?”
“I didn’t know her,” he said, shaking his head and wiping away his tears.
Hanash opened up the case file and took out a photo of Nezha. He passed it to Hamid, who then showed it to Abdel-Jalil. They watched him closely as he looked at the photo. He shook his head, verifying he didn’t know her.
“Said was more than a brother to me,” he said, holding back tears. “Who could have done this?”
“After you parted ways, where did you go?” Hanash asked.
“I went to the bus terminal and got a ticket for the midnight bus to Fez.”
“And you went to Fez?” asked Hanash.
“Of course I went to Fez. I nearly always go on the first of the month, after I get my wages, to visit my family and give them what I can to help out. I was going to go on Saturday night, but our weekly day off was postponed until Monday because of all these last-minute orders.”
“So, you traveled to Fez at midnight and then you were with your family?” Hamid asked.
Hanash and Hamid exchanged a curious look.
“What’s your family’s address in Fez?” Hamid demanded.
Abdel-Jalil dictated the address and Hamid scribbled it down in his notebook. Hanash got up, opened the curtains, and stared out into the busy streets. He needed a few moments to think. This young man had thrown him for a loop, as he seemed to be telling the truth. His sadness didn’t look like an act.
Hanash tried a few different ways of getting at the timing of his trip, but his story didn’t change. He returned to his desk chair and sat down, ignoring Abdel-Jalil. He pointed at Hamid, indicating he should continue.
“You said that you took the midnight bus to Fez,” Hamid said, “but you and your friend went separate ways around eight. How did you spend those four hours before you traveled?”
“I went home and slept until eleven thirty, and then headed to the bus terminal.”
“What was your relationship with Said like?”
“He was more than a brother to me, God rest his soul. We told each other everything, and didn’t keep any secrets from one another.”
Hanash lifted his head from the case file that he was pretending to read.
“No secrets, you say. So you knew all about the partying, drinking, sex, and other debauchery?”
“Sir, I follow my faith and carry out all of my religious obligations.”
Hanash stood up, his blood boiling. “Did you kill your friend and the girl with him?” he shouted.
Abdel-Jalil was terrified, and his eyes widened. “You’re accusing the wrong person, sir. I’m not a murderer!”
“Where did you hide the knife that you killed them with?”
“You’re accusing the wrong person!”
Hanash pressed the button to open the door and the security guard appeared instantly.
“Take him to the basement so he can cool down a bit,” he commanded.
Abdel-Jalil was in a state of shock. Hamid ordered him to put his hands up, and he took everything out of his pockets before the guard took him away.
“The most important thing is that we’ve got him,” Hanash said. “We’ll wait on a more comprehensive interrogation when we get the reports from the medical examiner and the forensics unit. But we need to look into his story. Call the police in Fez. Inform them about the nature of this crime and ask them to verify that Abdel-Jalil was with his family when he said he was. I want to know when he arrived and when he left.”
After Hamid exited with his orders, Hanash picked up Abdel-Jalil’s wallet and searched through it. Among a bunch of trivial things he found a bus ticket for Fez, for seat thirteen, with the date and time in question written on it.
12
At precisely ten o’clock, a waiter from the café next to the precinct brought Hanash his morning coffee. The moment he took a sip the phone rang. He looked at the number and saw it was the attorney general. He quickly put down the cup and lifted the receiver.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Greetings, detective. The double murder—is there anything new?”
Detective Hanash sensed that the tone of his voice had changed, and he knew that he needed to deliver some reassuring news.
“We are awaiting the reports from the medical examiner and the forensics unit.”
“Don’t you have a strong lead or a suspect yet?” the attorney general interrupted.
“We have two suspects under temporary detainment. One is a close friend of the male victim. We’ve contacted the police in Fez to confirm that he really was there with his family, as he claims, at the time the murder took place.”
“The other?”
“The other is a bouncer at the bar La Falaise, which the female suspect frequented. The bouncer has a strong alibi, confirming that he couldn’t have been at the site of the crime when it happened.”
“From what I remember the female victim was a prostitute, no?”
“Yes, that has been confirmed.”
Detective Hanash could hear the attorney general’s breathing down the phone.
“We need to take comprehensive measures regarding these clubs and bars for at least a week. I’m going to discuss this with the minister of the interior.”
“As you wish, sir.”
He put down the receiver and sat back in his chair. He hated when his superiors intervened in his work, except when it was to approve requests for extending the temporary detainment period. They didn’t really know anything about police work, but they pretended to know everything. All they cared about was getting results as quickly as possible. If the case required making difficult decisions, they would always say the same thing: “Do whatever the circumstances demand.” This was how they shirked any responsibility, leaving you to your fate.
He took a big gulp from the coffee cup, savoring it—it was excellent coffee and had a wonderful aroma. The security guard knocked on the door. Hanash opened it and the guard handed him the medical examiner’s report.
The report from the medical examiner consisted of two pages, written in French and signed by the doctor who had carried out the autopsy. Hanash raced through the report, skimming over some of the routine language. What was most important was the time of death, and the report confirmed that it was between one and two in the morning. It also confirmed that the female victim was killed quickly, and that the two victims were surprised in bed and had engaged in anal sex. The murder weapon was confirmed to be a sharp blade, either a large knife or a sword. The report also detailed that, although Nezha had been disfigured, her body was not beaten like the male victim’s had been. Said had been hit on the head and stabbed more than fifteen times. There was an attempt to cut off his penis but it seemed like the killer, or killers, gave up on this at the last minute. There were four lines in the report about the contents of the victims’ stomachs—which were full of red wine and beer. The female victim had no food in her stomach.
Detective Hanash found himself immersed in thought after reading the report. The time of death was absolutely crucial, to be compared with the suspects’ alibis. He reread the part detailing how the two were killed and started to feel more confident about his early theory that revenge was a motive. He picked up the phone to call the medical examiner.
“Good morning, professor. I read the report, but I have a question if you don’t mind.”
“Go ahead,” the doctor responded, intimating that he was busy.
“Okay, thanks. Do you think the killer was a professional? Someone who knew how to use a knife?”
“No. No way,” the docto
r replied. “The stab wounds were totally random, and there wasn’t resistance from the victims as they were likely killed in their sleep.”
“Thank you very much,” Hanash said, putting down the phone.
This medical examiner was extremely arrogant and dealt with police like they were beneath him. He would have to wait to see what the forensics report could tell him. Hopefully it would contain fingerprints that they could match to the murderer.
He started thinking about his men—what were Baba, Miqla, and Bu’u up to right now? He desperately needed Qazdabo snooping around to keep him in the loop.
There was a knock on the door and Hamid entered, looking despondent.
“Yes?” asked Hanash. “What is it?”
“Officer Azzadine called me from Fez. They interrogated Abdel-Jalil’s family and confirmed that he really was there. His father met him around four thirty in the morning on Sunday, when he arrived at the bus station. He brought him home on his scooter. He left Fez today at four this morning in order to get back to Casablanca for his shift at eight.”
The detective took out the bus ticket he had found in Abdel-Jalil’s wallet and tossed it in the bin under his desk.
“Well, this ticket is useless.” Then he remembered that Hamid wasn’t aware he had the ticket. “That was the ticket for the bus he took to Fez. I found it in his wallet.” He passed Hamid the medical report.
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