Bled Dry

by Abdelilah Hamdouchi

  “What’s everyone up to?” he asked, as Hamid read the report.

  Hamid returned the report to his desk without comment. “Baba has just returned from the morgue with Said’s father. I sent Bu’u to the neighborhood where the crime took place to sniff around a bit, see if he could find anything. Miqla is out looking for where they bought the alcohol.”

  Hanash nodded approvingly. “What are your first impressions of Said’s father?” he asked.

  “So far we haven’t gotten a word out of him. He hasn’t stopped crying. Do you want to see him?”

  “If he doesn’t have anything useful for the investigation, no need.”

  “We were able to ask if he had met Nezha, and if his son had problems with anyone. In both cases he answered no.”

  “Does he know his son’s friend, Abdel-Jalil?”

  “He never met him. Said’s family is quite scattered. His parents are divorced, and we still haven’t been able to track down his mother’s address. His father doesn’t know anything about his son’s life. I don’t think the murders had any connections to the relatives of the victims. We really need to find out who was in the room with them that night.”

  “The forensics report will be crucial in this regard.”

  Hanash hadn’t even finished his sentence when there was another knock on the door. The guard gave him a file and left. He looked through the forensics report excitedly, then tossed it to Hamid. Turning his back to the desk, he went to the window so he could look onto the streets, attempting to restrain his anger. Hamid read the forensics report and put it on the desk, astonished. The mood had quickly soured.

  Hanash turned toward Hamid. “When you see the forensics team at the crime scene in their space suits, with all that fancy new equipment, you figure they’ll work miracles! You see what they sent us? Absolutely nothing!”

  “It says the fingerprints they found were partial and didn’t allow them to determine anyone’s identity,” Hamid replied. “But it also says they could have been intentionally destroyed.”

  “I was waiting on this report to give us our prime suspect. It makes no sense that a third person who was with the victims didn’t leave a single intact fingerprint on a wine bottle or cigarette butt.”

  Hanash threw himself on his chair, feeling hopeless. He skimmed the multipage report again. It was mainly filled with basic information that was not helpful at all.

  “What now?” he wondered out loud.

  Hamid didn’t dare risk a response for fear that he’d say something that further stoked his boss’s anger. But Hanash stared at him firmly, expecting a response.

  “Isn’t it possible that the murderer, or murderers, erased every trace of themselves, including their fingerprints?” Hamid said.

  This comment made Hanash sink further into his chair. He looked out of sorts as he mulled this over.

  “What we need is a new lead, a new angle,” he said. “I have no interest, right now, in things that might take days or weeks to confirm. I don’t need to remind you just how important the first forty-eight hours are in solving any crime.”

  Hamid nodded vigorously. “We’ll shift into fifth gear, sir. We’ll summon all the girls at La Falaise who knew Nezha. The murderer likely emerged from their circles. Like you said, ‘Wherever alcohol and debauchery mingle, crime is just around the corner.’ This should be taught at the police academy. This will be our guiding principle in this investigation instead of these useless reports.”

  Hanash started getting nervous as he listened to Hamid. If he encouraged him down this path, then the team would no doubt find out about Hotel Scheherazade, Hamadi, and the night he met Nezha.

  “I can’t believe that the papers printed what I said without attribution,” he said, straightening up in his chair and changing the subject. “Listen, return to your office and look into what the others are doing. And what about the interrogation of Farqash and Abdel-Jalil? What’s the latest there?”

  Hamid got up and left.

  Hanash felt a strange discomfort in his stomach, and looked at his coffee mug suspiciously. Then he called Naeema, to ask about the preparations for the celebration in Marrakesh that he promised to attend since he wasn’t able to join them this morning.

  His cell phone rang. It was Rubio. He told Hanash he’d read about the double murder that was all over the news. He asked him to come for lunch, and told him that he’d prepare his favorite table, but Hanash excused himself, promising to drop by again soon.

  Hanash looked at his watch and saw it was twelve thirty. He rose, not sure what to do, and started collecting the various files and reports, unsure which came first or last. Before the medical and forensics reports arrived, he had been cautiously optimistic that he was close to getting his hands on something juicy. But optimism had given way to doubt and second-guessing. Had he started off on the wrong foot? It was hard to think of another direction he could have taken.

  His hunger suddenly rendered him incapable of thought. He thought the best course of action was to make a quick trip home and have whatever Wafa had prepared. He put on his jacket and went into the bathroom to wash his hands. He looked in the mirror, straightened his tie, and headed out.

  He stopped in the middle of the hallway as it dawned on him that he was leaving the office completely empty-handed, after hours of work. After having exhausted all his options, including the medical and forensics reports, he had no working theory and no meaningful evidence.

  He returned to his office. Farqash and Abdel-Jalil both had alibis that checked out, so in a matter of hours their temporary detainment periods would be over. At that point he’d have an investigation file that was completely empty. He must leave no stone unturned, so he went back into his office and extracted Abdel-Jalil’s bus ticket from the trash. He looked at it again and then reread the information carefully. He put it in his pocket and left his office quickly.

  Detective Hanash raced through Casablanca’s streets in one of the Japanese-model cars reserved for the highest-ranking officials. In less than fifteen minutes, he was at the entryway to Awlad Zayan bus terminal where he once again parked directly under a “No Parking” sign. This was another one of those assignments he would have entrusted to an officer under normal circumstances. He brought Abdel-Jalil’s bus ticket to the employee at the Fez ticket booth.

  “I need to authenticate this ticket,” he said, in an authoritative tone.

  The elderly employee behind the window looked up at him.

  “If you are a policeman, sir, then I am at your service,” he replied, with a hint of sarcasm.

  “Head detective, criminal investigations.”

  The man stood up as straight as he could, given his crooked back, and opened the kiosk door. There was barely space for one person inside.

  “At your service, sir. Please come in,” he said, as he bowed his head respectfully.

  The elderly employee motioned for the detective to take a seat on the one chair in the kiosk, while he remained standing. Hanash handed him the ticket.

  “I need to verify whether the man who purchased this ticket in fact traveled to Fez on this bus.”

  The employee inspected the ticket and hesitated. “Yes, it’s one of our tickets . . . Sunday, the midnight bus. Just a second, please.”

  He bent down so that his head nearly touched Hanash’s belly. He opened a dirty drawer and extracted a folder that contained a bunch of timetables and started flipping through them.

  “Sir, this folder”—he began explaining—“includes a list of all the buses that left the station since the beginning of the month. Here’s the one for Sunday . . . midnight . . . seat thirteen.”

  “Did he travel or not?” asked Hanash impatiently.

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Are you positive?”

  “Look for yourself. Here you go,” he said, passing the sheet to Hanash. “Before the buses pull out of the station a controller boards the bus to check everyone’s tickets. On the sheet you’re lo
oking at, he checks the box with the seat number. Seat number thirteen is empty. There’s no check. This means the person who bought the ticket didn’t show up before the bus departed.”

  “Any chance he switched his seat for another?”

  “That can only take place after the bus has left the station.”

  Hanash put the sheet in his pocket and got up hurriedly.

  “I’m going to keep this as evidence.”

  Back in the car he took the sheet of paper from his pocket and looked it over again as if it were a precious document. Then he started laughing.

  “That bastard is messing with us! He thinks we’re fools.”

  He took out his cell phone before starting the engine and dialed Hamid’s number.

  “Have you had lunch?” he asked, his voice exultant.

  “No. I’m still in the office with Said’s father.”

  “You can leave that now. Go and get something to eat. Fill up—we need to be ready to work. I found something that might crack this case.”

  “Really? Okay, sir.”

  “I’ll fill you in when I get back. But before you go, tell Kinko to put a piss-soaked rag in Abdel-Jalil’s mouth to teach him a lesson about lying.”

  He hung up before Hamid had a chance to reply. Fifteen minutes later he was back downtown and stopped at Restaurant Jerome throughout on Harizi Street. The restaurant was owned by a Moroccan Jew and popular with the locals. It was one of the best-known restaurants in Casablanca, and its Muslim patrons far outnumbered its Jewish customers. Hanash beeped his horn and Jerome rushed out. He was a handsome man of around fifty. He had green eyes, a snub nose, and a large belly.

  “Hello, detective,” Jerome said in his Jewish-Moroccan accent. “What will it be?”

  “Jerome, I see how busy it is, but if you could prepare some kidney sausage sandwiches for me, I’d be grateful.”

  Jerome opened his door for him. “Come on in. Better to eat inside.”

  “Ah, sorry, Jerome, I’m on an urgent case.”

  A look of concern spread over Jerome’s face. “God protect us, what happened?”

  “We received a warning that suicide bombers are going to blow themselves up in five minutes. Hurry up and make those sandwiches!”

  Jerome laughed. “What is this? Scare tactics? I’m not leaving my country no matter what happens. There are explosions everywhere, no matter where you live.”

  In the five minutes it took Jerome to prepare the sandwiches Hanash sat in his car and reflected on the last terrorist blasts that had rocked Casablanca. It was all so incredibly absurd, he thought—these young men seeking any excuse to die, and finding that excuse through their embrace of a perverted extremist ideology.

  Hanash found the hallways empty and all the office doors locked when he returned to the precinct. Even the security guard assigned to his office had gone to lunch.

  He had everything he needed in his office—there were plates, knives, forks, glasses, and napkins. He prepared a table as if he were in a restaurant. When he opened the plastic bag from Jerome, he was surprised to find an entire meal, including salad and fruit. Before he could take his first bite the office phone rang. He reached out to pick up the receiver and immediately heard his wife’s voice.

  “Wafa told me that she prepared you something for lunch but you didn’t go home.”

  “Yes,” he lamented, “I forgot to tell her that I couldn’t make it back today. An emergency came up at work. I’m eating sandwiches in my office at the moment. I’ll tell her to leave the lunch for dinner.”

  He hung up and attacked Jerome’s delicious sandwiches.

  13

  Two men lifted Abdel-Jalil by the armpits and moved him from Kinko’s room in the basement to a holding cell. He couldn’t walk on his own because the soles of his feet had been caned—they were split open and bloody. They tossed him into a corner of the cell, where he remained, crumpled on the ground and in anguish from his wounds, not to mention his hunger, thirst, and nausea from the urine-soaked rag that Kinko had stuffed in his mouth. Kinko was the best on the force when it came to intimidation and torture. He’d really honed his craft following the 2003 terrorist attacks in Casablanca. He regretted having to adapt to recent protocols, which demanded a bit more caution, such as not leaving discernible marks of torture.

  Before the guards brought Abdel-Jalil into Hanash’s office they let him wash his face and clean off his clothes, and they gave him a dry crust of bread with a bit of butter on it. They brought him up cuffed and pushed him into the center of the office. Hanash ordered the guard to remove his cuffs.

  “Take a seat, Abdel-Jalil,” he said in a paternal voice. “Now, take a good look at this sheet. Look closely at the box next to number thirteen, your seat number. Look closely . . . see how there is no mark next to number thirteen for the midnight bus to Fez on Sunday night? That means that you didn’t go see your family.”

  Abdel-Jalil’s face turned white and he couldn’t look at Hanash.

  “Lift up your head and answer the detective!” yelled Hamid.

  “I swear to God I traveled. Ask my family in Fez.”

  Hanash circled around his desk and smacked the closet door.

  “Now you’ve pissed off the boss,” Hamid whispered, leaning into Abdel-Jalil. “Is that what you wanted?”

  Hanash returned to his desk, his chest heaving. “Why did you force your family to lie?” he asked. “Do you know what will happen to them? All of them are going to be arrested for providing false information and misleading the police. I’m going to call the chief of police in Fez now and have them all arrested.”

  He lifted up the receiver and started entering the number.

  “Your poor parents,” Hamid added. “What did they ever have to do with this?”

  Abdel-Jalil began sobbing and imploring Hanash not to make the call.

  “I beg you, sir. My father has diabetes. This news would give him a heart attack.”

  Hanash put the phone down and glared at him. “Come on, Abdel-Jalil,” he chided. “Be a man.”

  “Oh God, this is exactly what I feared,” Abdel-Jalil said, as if he were addressing himself. “I’ll tell you everything from the beginning.”

  He told them how he ran into Nezha after purchasing his bus ticket to Fez, and how he suggested that she join him at his friend’s apartment, since he lived so close to the bus terminal. He mentioned that they agreed on three hundred dirhams for the night. When they arrived at Said’s, Abdel-Jalil related, he was shocked to find Said already drunk when he opened the door, and said that Said immediately became infatuated with Nezha and wanted her for himself.

  “I don’t know how I got roped into drinking. Maybe it was because of my friend’s behavior. He wanted Nezha for himself and was so aggressive in trying to kick me out of the place to be alone with her. I think every time he reminded me of my bus’s departure time I drank more. Despite our friendship, I’m not his pimp! Did he really think I had hunted down a prostitute to bring back for him? Then he started asking me to go out to buy more cigarettes—to get rid of me. Then an idea came to me . . . well, more like the damn alcohol told me . . . why don’t I head out, and when I get back and see that Said already had his way with Nezha, I’ll have a turn myself, and get a bit of revenge by being rough. So I left the door slightly open and went out to the street, looking for someone selling cigarettes. I think I walked around for more than fifteen minutes until I found some. I know it was about that long because I smoked more than one on the way back. At that point, trust me, I wasn’t thinking about Nezha nearly as much as I was thinking about Said. I remembered that his entire month’s salary was in a drawer in his nightstand. I suddenly got scared that Nezha would steal his money. When I got back to the apartment I was surprised to find the door wide open. In the bedroom there was blood everywhere . . . it was still fresh. Steam was rising off it like when sheep are slaughtered at Eid. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I wasn’t sure if it was real or the alcohol was messing
with me. Next thing I knew I was in the street, running. I desperately wanted to run into someone who I could tell, but at the same time I thought that what I saw might all have been an alcohol-induced hallucination. I kept running until I got home, despite the distance. I took a cold shower, and it was at that point I realized that there was no way that what I saw was some hallucination. The horrifying scene that I saw in my friend’s bedroom was real. So what now? I thought. If I called the police . . . you guys . . . I’d immediately be a suspect, since I was the last one with Said and Nezha. I’d be detained until they could find the killer, in which case I’d lose my job. They’d have no sympathy at the factory—people are fired over anything. And then, even after you find the killer I’d have to give testimony about drinking and being involved with a prostitute, so I’d be imprisoned for those things anyway.

  “So I was scared I’d be fired from my job if I called the police. I can’t lose my job—I support my whole family. When I saw the bus ticket in my wallet an idea came to mind. As I thought back through everything that happened, I was sure that no one had seen me, and no one else knew what happened. So why not just go to Fez as planned? I changed my clothes, went to the train station, and took the first train I could to Fez. That’s the truth.”

  Hanash listened intently, and once Abdel-Jalil had finished he relaxed in his chair. Hamid, on the other hand, smiled sarcastically and shook his head, not believing a single word.

  “You concocted this whole scenario just because you were afraid of losing your job?” Hamid said, ridiculing him. “Did you tell your family what happened?”

  Abdel-Jalil seized up, and then he started bawling. “I told everyone what happened. My father said that the police are sophisticated and would solve the case in the blink of an eye. They were sure that the truth would come out and the killer would be apprehended yesterday. Then no one would even find out about the drinking and all the rest of it, and I wouldn’t get fired.”

  Hanash reached his arms out over the desk as if he wanted to strangle Abdel-Jalil.