UTube

by Rozlan Mohd Noor

  “I can go through her laptop logs and get her accounts, but isn’t that illegal?”

  “She’s dead, OK? She isn’t going to know.”

  Saifuddin gives her an I’m-not-sure look.

  “Come on, Sai.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No. And, Sai, can you burn that video on a DVD for me?”

  “Done.” He flips through his DVD holder. “Here.”

  “Thanks.”

  Sherry locks herself in her office and watches the DVD. She freezes a frame with the rapist in it and scrutinizes it. They can’t be that good, she tells herself. There must be something that gives them away. He is light-skinned, could be Chinese or Malay or Eurasian of average height and build. The head was covered with pantyhose. The hair looks dark but could be of any length. The pantyhose man stepped out of frame and the camera focused on the victim. When he comes back on, he is naked. The angle is from his back and side; there is no way to tell if he put on his condom or if his pubic hair is shaved. No distinctive mark on the body; no tattoo or birthmark, deformity or scar.

  Sherry moves the video forward and searches for the frame that best captured the rapist’s penis. She zooms in as much as she can without breaking the pixels. Staring at it, she believes the rapist’s penis is circumcised. What does it mean? That he’s Malay, a Muslim? A lot of non-Malay and non-Muslim undergo circumcision for health and hygiene. Anyway, don’t all erect penises appear circumcised? He spoke in a Malay-English mix, like most locals, with no particular accent.

  She replays the video, focusing on the body, its physical build. He doesn’t appear muscular, like someone who worked out. But it does look like a workingman’s body—not flabby. Her eyes strain from staring at the screen. “Damn it, give me something,” she finally cries in despair, “something, anything.”

  Restarting the video, she turns up the volume, leans back in her chair, closes her eyes, and focuses on the dialogue. The rapist’s low, hoarse, muffled voice sounded creepy, and it makes the hairs on the back of her neck bristle. Not once did the rapist raise his voice at Era.

  She makes a call to Saifuddin. “Sai, can you enhance the vocals?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you make a copy of the video with enhanced audio?”

  “Sure.”

  “When can I have it?”

  “Give me until tomorrow. I need to do it at the lab.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  12

  IT HAS BEEN SEVEN days since Era Amilia was raped. The case now has earned the moniker of the UTube Rapist. The first four days were hell for Sherry. The media had made a meal of it, covering the rape-suicide from every imaginable angle. Interviews with other rape victims were published or aired with graphic details, without regard to ongoing investigations or victims’ feelings. One TV program went so far as to reenact the rape scene. Rape statistics for the last few years were repeatedly discussed at length by so-called “experts.” Comments were sought from criminologists, psychologists, and NGOs. Politicians grabbed every opportunity they could for publicity. The police have been routinely condemned for incompetence and ineffectiveness. Social-media users have speculated on the what, why, and how. Conspiracy theories have alleged involvement of public figures, corporate bigwigs, and celebrities. The most common theory is that the rape was to stop the victim from revealing her affair with one such public figure or influential individual. NGOs have sent memoranda to the government demanding harsher punishments for crimes against women. Muslim groups blame alcohol and entertainment outlets for encouraging sexual freedom and moral degradation.

  Although, after four days, the media have let up a little, Sherry still can’t sleep at night. The rape scene keeps playing in her head when she closes her eyes. She hears the rapist’s muffled scary voice asking the victim if she’s enjoying it, if she came. She hears the victim’s terrified pleading. She pictures the victim falling from the balcony, her sad pleading eyes staring at her.

  Her cell phone rings.

  “Yes, Deena,” she answers, noting the time on the Astro decoder. It shows 3:10 in the morning.

  “Ma’am, Wangsa Maju station just called, we have another case. They said D9 is already there.”

  “Special Investigations?”

  “Yes, D9.”

  “Why’s D9 responding to a rape case?”

  “It was reported as murder, a 3-0-2, but then they learned that a housemate of the deceased had been raped. It’s a bit sketchy. The station said something about a video. He’s not sure if it was of the murder or the rape.”

  “What’s the address? I’ll meet the team there.”

  The crime scene is Unit 10-403 City Hall Public Housing in Setapak Jaya, a lower-cost walk-up apartment building. The cluster of blocks painted orange and yellow looks run-down and congested. Cars and motorbikes are randomly parked along the narrow streets. There is no guard post or any form of barrier limiting access to the area. Johan spots the blue-and-red light of an ambulance and drives toward it.

  “It must be this block,” he says as he parks next to the ambulance.

  The D9 officers climb the stairs to level four. In front of unit 403 is a crowd of onlookers. Sleepy-eyed residents on the floor have started to emerge and gather on hearing the presence of the paramedics and policemen. Inspector Mislan Latif and Detective Sergeant Johan Kamarudin of Special Investigations find the patrolmen chatting with the paramedics. Mislan beckons a policeman over.

  “Why are the paramedics here?”

  “The initial call was for a medical emergency. By the time paramedics arrived, the victim was already dead, so they called us.”

  Mislan nods.

  “Who’s the IO?” Mislan asks, referring to the investigating officer.

  “Inspector Low. He’s inside with the victim.”

  “I thought you said the victim is dead.”

  “One of them.”

  “How many of them are there?”

  “Two, one raped and one murdered. The station also called D11.”

  “Tell the medics to stand by. D11 may need them.” Turning to enter the unit, he adds, “Don’t let anyone in unless they’re pertinent to the investigation.”

  From the doorway, he sees a body partially sprawled under the dining table, its head in a pool of blood. He observes blood spatters on the floor, the dining table, and the wall next to it. The blood on the wall formed a single jagged line from about five feet upward. He sees drops of blood on the floor, from the cadaver to the door. He beckons Johan over, pointing to the drops of blood

  “Careful,” he cautions his assistant.

  From where he’s standing, he notices that some blood drops have been smeared at the entrance and in the corridor.

  “Shit,” he cusses. “You,” he barks at the policemen, “get all of these people out of here. Can’t you see the blood on the floor?”

  The crowd looks down.

  “What’re you waiting for?” he snaps. “And watch where you step.” He waits for the crowd to leave before turning to his assistant. “Where the hell is D10?”

  “On the way,” one of the policemen answers.

  “By the time they arrive, all the blood evidence will be destroyed,” Mislan snarls. “Jo, get some glasses, cups, or plates from the kitchen and mark the blood drops so no one steps on them.”

  Johan and the two policemen mark the blood drops with whatever crockery they can get hold of from the kitchen. The corridor from the unit’s front door leading to the staircase is littered with all forms and color of crockery.

  “Great job,” Mislan says.

  “It reminds me of a domestic dispute call I responded to during my MPV days,” Johan says.

  “Not one of your own, I hope.”

  “I don’t have that many dishes.”

  “Tell them,” Mislan motions to the policemen, “no one takes pictures unless he wants to spend a day in the lockup.”

  Mislan reenters the apartment and takes another peek un
der the table. The deceased’s head is lying in a pool of coagulated blood, her hair all matted and caked with dry blood, with wide-open eyes rolled back. The front of her black T-shirt is soaked in blood, and her right hand grips a chair leg that had fallen over. At a glance, the deceased appears to have two mouths—a clown-like mouth where dark red, thick blood leaked on the right side of her neck, and a wide gap where her real mouth is.

  He lightly pats the victim’s back pocket and pulls out a wallet. The identity card says the victim is Zaitun binti Zainal, age twenty-nine, listed home address in Taiping, Perak. The wallet also contains a driver’s license with the same particulars, an ATM card, several commercial point-cards, and cash of thirty-six ringgit.

  Johan enters the apartment. “Watch your step,” Mislan warns him. “You know, it always amazes me how much blood a human body holds.”

  “It’s a she!” Johan says, surprised.

  “You were expecting?”

  “Is that my rape victim?” Inspector Sherry asks, stepping into the unit unannounced, standing beside Johan.

  Mislan turns to look at her.

  “Sorry, Sherry from D11. You’re Mislan D9 right? I’ve seen you around the office with Reeziana a few times.”

  Mislan nods,

  “If she was, she’s mine now,” he says answering her earlier question.

  “Where’s mine then?”

  Mislan motions to the bedroom. “In there with the IO.”

  “What happened out there?” Sherry asks. “There are cups, mugs, and plates scattered all along the corridor.”

  “Haven’t you been told? Those are D9’s new crime-scene exhibit markers. We don’t want to create panic among the public by using the standard ones. So Forensics came up with this novel idea,” Mislan says with a straight face.

  “Seriously, what happened here?” Sherry asks, not amused.

  “We just arrived. I haven’t talked to your vic yet. Watch your step. Don’t step on the blood spatters. Jo, where are the forensic guys?”

  “On their way,” Johan replies, heading to the kitchen.

  “Sherry, I heard you’ve a task force working on the UTube rape. Did you bring them along?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can I borrow your team to search the area for the murder weapon? Judging from the wound, it looks like it was a knife or some other sharp-bladed instrument. Jo, can you call for K9?”

  “Dog unit?” Johan asks, uncertain of his boss’s decision.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “The residents here are mainly Malay Muslim. I don’t think they’d like having a dog running around.”

  “Just because they won’t like it, we don’t do our job?” Mislan questions sharply.

  “You’re the boss.”

  Sherry tells her three detectives to assist in the search for the murder weapon. She and Deena head for the bedroom.

  Mislan calls out, “Sherry, please don’t touch anything until the forensics team arrives.”

  Kevin Foo of Kuala Lumpur Contingent Headquarters Forensic (D10) and Chew Beng Song of the Crime Forensic Headquarters and his team arrive at the same time.

  “Chew, why are you here?” Mislan asks.

  “Superintendent Lillian asked my boss if we can assist, and here I am.”

  “Great. Kevin, why don’t you go with Sherry? She’s in there with the victim. Chew can do this with me.”

  “No problem.”

  “Good.”

  “My boss said it was a rape, so what’s that body doing here?” Chew asks.

  “I did ask her, but she’s not telling,” Mislan jokes.

  “Oh I forgot, you can talk with the dead.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “The DUKE murders, Detective Sergeant Johan told me you got closure by visiting the crime scene and speaking to the deceased,” Chew replies and chuckles, joined by Johan.

  “Let me have a peek at the rape case first so I can at least brief my boss when he asks,” Chew says.

  “Go ahead. Mine says she’s not going anywhere.”

  “Who’s the IO for the rape?”

  “Sherry—she’s in there. Chew, can you check my victim for her cell phone?”

  “You haven’t checked for it?”

  “It’s likely in her front pocket. Too much blood there. I’ll let you have the honor of doing it.”

  “Thanks, that’s thoughtful of you,” Chew replies.

  Mislan steps out of the unit and lights a cigarette. He walks to the staircase and inspects it closely. After several minutes, he summons the policemen.

  “Were you the ones who responded to the call?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who opened the door for you?”

  “It was open when we got here. The paramedics were here first. I supposed the other victim opened it for them.”

  “Have you filed the report?”

  “Not yet.”

  “OK, get those people off the floor and keep them off. File your report and send a copy to Detective Sergeant Johan.”

  The K9 Unit arrives and asks if there’s anything belonging to the suspect that could be used as a scent for the dog. Johan replies in the negative.

  “What do you want us to look for?”

  “A knife or any sharp-bladed instrument covered with blood.”

  “I need something the dog can sniff to pick up the trail.”

  “How about the victim’s blood?” Mislan suggests. “That should be all over the murder weapon.”

  “l’ll give it a shot.”

  “Do the staircase first. See if the dog can spot traces of blood.”

  The dog handler nods.

  “Cover a radius of about 250 yards. Start with the roadside drains and garbage bins.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Jo, let Chew know if K9 finds any trace of blood in the stairwell.”

  “Where’re you going?”

  “To walk about and check out the area. There’s nothing here for me to do. I need to talk to Sherry’s vic, but I can’t do that until she has been processed.” As Mislan walks to the staircase, he adds, “We’re closer to HUKM than HKL, right?”

  Johan shakes his head.

  “Send the body to HUKM anyway.”

  “You want me to tell Inspector Sherry to send her vic there, too?”

  “No, let her make her own decisions. See you back at the office.”

  13

  ON HIS WAY BACK to the office, he stops by a roadside stall and buys breakfast for himself and his assistant. The Kuala Lumpur Police Contingent building is just beginning to come to life with officers, police personnel, and civilian staff coming in to work when he arrives. The greetings and hands rising in salute fill the lobby. It must be bloody tiring for the policeman on duty in the lobby, Mislan thinks. Even in the small and crowded space of the elevator lobby, there is so much ass-kissing and lobbying going on, so much office politics and gossip. When he steps out of the elevator, his cell phone rings. It’s his assistant telling him the K9 didn’t discover anything of interest.

  “Jo, I got you breakfast.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Can you hang around until after the morning prayer?”

  “Sure.”

  He makes a mug of black coffee and sits alone at the makeshift pantry to enjoy his favorite breakfast of nasi lemak with sambal sotong—squid cooked with chili paste—and fried egg.

  Inspector Reeziana walks in looking as cheery as ever, drops her bag at her desk, and joins him.

  “How was business?”

  “Caught a late one this morning.”

  Reeziana raises her eyebrows.

  “Rape and murder, Setapak Jaya.”

  “The vic was raped then murdered?”

  “One was raped and another murdered.”

  “Same location?”

  Mislan nods.

  “Why wasn’t the other one killed?”

  “That’s what I’m wondering.”

  Mislan lights a cigarette and pas
ses the pack to Reeziana, who glances at her watch and declines, saying, “Morning prayer starting soon.”

  Inspector Tee walks in, drops his bag, and tells them the head of Special Investigations is already in the meeting room. Reeziana and Tee make their way to the meeting, leaving Mislan to finish his cigarette.

  Superintendent Samsiah Hassan, the head of Special Investigations, is just about to start the meeting when Mislan enters. She acknowledges him with a remark: “Busy night.”

  “One of those days,” Mislan replies, smiling.

  Turning to the others, she asks, “Who has court today?”

  Almost all the officers raise their hands.

  “OK, let’s start.”

  Mislan briefs the meeting on cases of interest reported within his twenty-four-hour shift. One armed robbery and one armed housebreaking, suspected to be by the same gang. One domestic violence, a housewife killed by her drug-addict husband, case handled by district. The last was a rape and murder in the same case.

  “The vic, I mean the deceased, is Zaitun binti Zainal, twenty-nine, from Taiping.”

  “How’s she connected to the rape vic?”

  “Not established yet, most likely housemate. I’ve not been able to talk to the rape vic.”

  “OK, I want you to liaise with D11 before talking to their vic.”

  Mislan nods reluctantly.

  “Ghani, what’s the progress on the armed robbery and housebreaking cases?” Samsiah asks.

  “So far, we’ve no solid lead on the gang,” ASP Ghani Ishak, head of Special Projects, replies. “They seem to vanish after break-ins, and nothing taken has surfaced on the black market in the city.”

  “Widen your net. They may be from out of town. Check with other states and see if the loot surfaces in other areas. Let’s wrap this up quickly.” She turns to Mislan. “The rape and murder, I’m bringing in D11.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we need them.”

  “But—” Mislan stops his objection, mouth agape, as the head of Special Investigations throws him a not-here-not-now glare.

  She looks around the table. “Is there anything else?”

  The officers shake their heads.

  “For your information, our request for another investigator’s vehicle was rejected. Off-duty investigations take second priority in the use of official vehicles. I’m still hearing complaints of vehicles being used by officers for catering services. I want this stopped immediately. Use your own vehicle to buy your meals, or get the detectives to buy your meals using their bikes. If you pay for their meal, I’m sure they’ll be glad to do it for you,” she says and smiles. “That’s it, let’s get some work done. Be safe.”