Completing the questionnaires he writes the Kepala Report, a header with a two-line summary of the case. He classifies it as a 302 and hits the ‘enter’ key, sending the report digitally to pre-addressed recipients. He signs out and turns off the computer. Before leaving, he stops by the front desk and pulls out the message box. He finds his stack and flips through them. Noting that all the messages are from television networks and the press, he drops them back into the box and leaves.
Once inside his car, he takes out the notepad and writes in it, Cause of death: poisoning by inhalation. Type of gas: unknown. Victims were embalmed, modus operandi unknown. Replacing the notepad in his backpack, he starts the car and heads home. He thinks of calling Dr Safia when he stops at a traffic light. He wonders if they could continue from where they had left off. Then, he banishes the thought. He tells himself he is expecting too much.
6
Monday
As he walks past his boss’s office at seven-thirty, he notices she is already at her desk going through the twenty-four-hour reports. She signals him to enter.
“Pagi, puan,” he greets her, standing at the doorway.
“Pagi, come in and sit down,” she says, pointing to chairs in front of her table. “You didn’t call me last night, so I suppose you have nothing new?”
“Sorry, the meeting went a on little longer than I expected. I didn’t want to bother you so late at night,” he says lamely.
She raises her eyebrow, and gives him a knowing smile. “Bet it did. So how did it go?”
“Dr Safia has uncovered two unusual facts about the murders. She is following up on them. I’ll be discussing them with her today. Meanwhile, we’ll be checking the backgrounds of the vics, especially Robert Tham, to see if we can develop a theory.”
“And Dr Safia’s findings are?”
“She says all the vics were poisoned by inhalation, and that they were embalmed.”
Mislan expects her to be surprised; instead, she merely leans back expressionless, silent. Finally, she says, “I’m taking you out of roster for a week. That’ll give you sufficient time to make some headway, or to solve this.”
“Are you not going to ask me about the embalming?”
“Nope. I thought they looked a little fresh. It kept me awake all night. Embalming did occur to me. I’ve seen many dead people, you know,” she says, reminding him she was a ground officer once. “I’ve also seen embalmed bodies. At funerals. Anyway, I knew you’d uncover the reason for their fresh look. That’s going to mess up the time-of-death, though, the embalming.”
“I don’t know, will it? Guess, Dr Safia will handle that.”
“All right, then.”
“Thanks. Are you expecting closure on this?” he asks. He knows the consequences of failure. He also realises the slack she is cutting him by taking him off the roster for a week. That decision is unlikely to be popular with the other investigators. With him off the roster, it will only increase their case loads. Over the week, casual comments and friendly teasing could easily become ugly scorn, and, if he failed to get closure, it would worsen. “I appreciate the slack time, but don’t you think it’s better to wait until I have a solid lead, at least?”
“How are we going to get a solid lead, if you are not out there looking?”
“You’re the boss,” he says, knowing she may have reasons he is not privileged to know.
“I’ll announce it at morning prayer,” she says, referring to their daily early morning meeting of officers, dismissing him. As he leaves, she says, “Heard your case has a name: The Yee Sang Murders. Nice.”
“Yah, heard it too,” he says, shrugging without looking back, but he is sure she is smiling at him, teasing.
Sergeant Johan Ismail comes in with two packets of nasi lemak, and puts one on his desk.
“What’s this for?”
“For not making me work on Sunday night,” Johan says mischievously.
Mislan picks up his packet of rice and walks to the makeshift pantry, a tiny area next to the emergency exit with an old desk and several chairs pushed against the wall. He makes coffee for both of them, and sits for his nasi lemak breakfast.
“This tastes good. Where did you buy it?”
“From a stall near my house. What are we doing today?”
“I’d like you to start with a profile on the vics, the father first. Try D7.” That was Vice, Gaming, and Secret Society. “After that, talk to Narcotics and Commercial Crimes. Let’s shake the bushes and see what comes out. I’ll see if Special Branch has anything on him.”
“Do you have a theory? I mean, the killers did go into quite a lot of trouble.”
“You are saying, ‘killers’. What makes you think there was more than one killer?”
“There has to be. It’s not a one-person job. At least two people must have been involved.”
“If it’s ‘they’, do you think there’s a message? A warning. Are we to expect more vics?”
“Could be, but whoever the message is for might not get it, or might retaliate.”
“Retaliate? You mean a war?”
“May come to that.”
“What about the motive? A business deal gone bad?”
“Possible, or it could be over a drug deal, gambling, vice, anything.”
“How so?”
Before Johan can answer, Mislan hears his name being called. Chief Inspector Krishnan points to the meeting room, indicating that ‘morning prayer’ is about to begin. He folds his nasi lemak wrapper and puts it aside. He tells Johan he will clean up later.
‘Morning prayer’ kicks off at eight-thirty, starting with the latest twenty-four-hour reports of serious crimes. The meeting is usually short, allowing investigators to attend court proceedings and other matters. This morning, he expects to be the star attraction and it bothers him that he has nothing of substance to mention. Chief Inspector Krishnan starts the meeting with his briefing. It is quickly dispensed with, and all heads turn to Mislan. It is his turn. Awkward silence follows as they wait for him to start. When nothing happens, like spectators at a tennis match, all heads turn to the Head of Major Crimes, as if it is her turn to serve. She laughs heartily, breaking the silence, surprising them.
“Thank you for the moment of silence. I’m sure the late Mr Robert Tham and family would have appreciated that. Mislan, do you want to update us on The Yee Sang Murders?” All heads turn toward him in unison.
Just as he is about to start speaking, the door swings open and the Officer in Charge of Criminal Investigation, Senior Assistant Commissioner Burhanuddin Sidek arrives. Caught unawares, chairs are hastily pushed back as investigators jump to attention. Only puan is not surprised. She stands calmly, greets him and offers him her chair, creating a domino effect, with the investigator at the far end left standing. The standing investigator then scurries out to find a chair for himself, not wishing to miss the excitement of the morning. Mislan figures the heat must have been turned up a few degrees for the high priest of crime to come prowling in the villages for sacrificial goats.
“Inspector Mislan, are you the lead in this case?” the OCCI inquires pompously, being the first to sit.
He nods.
“Have you seen the papers today?” he asks sarcastically.
“No, tuan. I haven’t had the opportunity.”
The OCCI looks at Supt Samsiah, who just nods.
“Well, there is a picture of the scene, with an inset of a photograph of the victim, with the headline, RT Owner Murdered.” The OCCI pauses as if expecting applause, but when none comes, he continues. “The way I read it, the press is leaning towards kongsi gelap – the triads. I’m getting calls from some concerned public figures fearing the worst: repercussions, retaliations, more killings, even a gang war.” He pauses. “Where are we on this?” he asks, turning dramatically towards the Head of Major Crimes.
Unperturbed by the OCCI’s melodrama, she says calmly, “We were about to hear the update.” Without waiting for a response fro
m the OCCI, she says, “Mislan, why don’t you update us.”
All eyes are now on him. Clearing his throat of imaginary blockages, he begins, “The vics are Tham Cheng Loke, also known to the public as Robert Tham, and ...”
“Let’s skip the bio. I’ve read the twenty-four-hour report,” the OCCI snaps impatiently. “Tell us what you’ve got, and what is vics?”
“He means ‘victims’,” puan explains, to the amusements of the other investigators.
Mislan is tempted to ask “Have you really read the twenty-four-hour report?” but does not, and only glares at SAC Burhanuddin. In the few seconds of silent staring that follows, he swears he can hear the investigators breathing and Chief Inspector Krishnan’s stomach growling. Even cell phones seem to know not to ring. A tapping sound draws his attention to puan, who gives him one of her let-it-slide stare.
Yielding, Mislan continues, “We have nothing much to go on, now. The pathologist is making some inquiries on the embalming methods. I’m expecting some answers soon, by Tuesday the earliest. The Forensic Department cannot give us anything yet. Meanwhile, my assistant is doing a background on the vics, to see if we can discover a motive.”
“Who’s the pathologist?”
“Dr Nursafia Roslan from HUKM.”
“Have you spoken to the chief pathologist?”
“No, I don’t see the necessity. I have worked with Dr Nursafia on several cases before this. She knows her stuff. She is putting this on the burner, and samples have been sent to the toxicologist for analysis.”
“What are the leads?”
“They are ‘findings’, not leads, yet. I prefer not to make it public now. If you wish, I can brief you on a need-to-know basis.” He looks at his boss.
She agrees, and he hears low murmurings of disappointment from the other investigators. With that, the ‘morning prayer’ ends. As the investigators file out, he whispers to one of them to get Johan to come in.
As the last investigator leaves, the OCCI says, “You’re going to lose many friends.”
Mislan ignores the remark, knowing his fellow investigators would act the same way to protect their cases from being leaked to the press, or elsewhere. To him, SAC Burhanuddin Sidek is just another arse-kissing-pen-pusher who is full of it, and a publicity junkie who decorated his office walls with framed newspaper clippings of himself. His office has been nicknamed the ‘ego-chamber’ by those who have visited it. He was one of several hundred senior police officers who were reassigned when the Police Field Force, a paramilitary outfit during the ‘Emergency’ period, was downsized. Many went into management, General Duties or Traffic but, by the intervention of mysterious hands, SAC Burhanuddin became the city’s crime-fighting supremo with no crime fighting experience, except from watching television. His appointment caught many veteran crime fighters by surprise. Many put in transfer requests, and many retired. It was rumoured that his wife was well-connected.
He hears a soft knock on the door. Sergeant Johan enters and stands at attention. Supt Samsiah acknowledges his salute and points to a chair. Then looking at Mislan she says, “Shall we?”
Speaking to SAC Burhanuddin, he introduces his assistant investigating officer, explaining the need to invite Johan. He pauses for SAC Burhanuddin’s response, not expecting any, then he continues, “Dr Safia’s professional opinion is death by poisoning. Chew, the Forensic supervisor, has the same opinion. As there was no sign of force, no needle mark on the bodies, or bruising at the mouths, Dr Safia suspects the poison was administered by inhalation. They were gassed.”
“What do you mean, she suspects? Doesn’t she know?”
“That’s her professional opinion. She has sent samples of tissues, blood, and nostril hair to toxicology and expects something by today. In investigation methodology, until the results are back from the lab, it remains an opinion,” he says, watching the OCCI looking on clueless. From the corner of his eyes, he sees puan hiding a smile with her hand. He continues, “Dr Safia says the vics were embalmed.”
“What does that mean?”
“The victims’ blood had been removed and replaced with embalming fluid. It’s what morticians do in funeral parlours.”
The OCCI nods with disinterest.
“Raw material for embalming are readily available. She’s trying to determine whether the fluid used on the vics carries a signature.”
“Does she know the embalming process?”
“She’s doesn’t. She’s looking for someone who might. Meanwhile, we’re building a profile on Robert Tham. We’re reaching out to D7, Narcotics, and the Special Branch for a theory.”
“How far back do we need to go?” Again, it’s Supt Samsiah.
“As far back as we can.”
“Do you need me to talk to them?” she offers.
“We’re good for the moment. I’ll take you up on your offer if we’re stonewalled.”
“Is that all?” the OCCI interjects. “You expect me to go to the press with that?” He turns to puan, “I can’t go to the press with that! What about suspects?”
“Suspects! We don’t even have a motive.” He says, not hiding his annoyance.
The OCCI looks at Supt Samsiah and says, “Are you not putting someone with more experience on this?”
“Mislan remains the lead, I’ll supervise,” she answers, calmly. “I’ve pulled him off the roster to focus on this case and …”
“Are you not going to reconsider your decision?” the OCCI cuts her off.
Her face hardens. She shakes her head.
“I think you’re making a mistake. It’s your career on the line,” the OCCI says, making a clear threat. He pushes himself up with his hands on the meeting table, indicating that the meeting is over.
They remain seated until he leaves.
“Thanks, puan, but he’s right. I’ll understand if you want to give this to someone else.”
“Just do your job. Let me worry about my career,” she says curtly, and leaves.
7
RT Fashion House in Bukit Bintang occupies an old colonial bungalow that has been remodelled into commercial property. Mislan parks in a ‘visitors’ bay and stands by his open car door for several minutes, admiring the luxury vehicles in the lot.
He then picks up his backpack, closes the car door and walks to the front door. He notes that it is monitored by a closed-circuit camera. A key-access pad with an intercom by its side has a sticker that says ‘Please Press for Assistance’. Standing by the door he examines the two sides of the bungalow. A camera mounted at each end is aimed at the car park and the gate, probably to capture images of vehicles entering and leaving the compound. He sees no guardhouse, and no security guard on duty, either. He wonders who monitors the cameras and how long the recordings are stored before being overwritten.
A woman’s voice coming through the intercom startles him, “Can I help you?”
“I’m Inspector Mislan. I’m here to see the person in charge,” he speaks into the intercom.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No,” he replies, holding up his authority card to the camera. He hears the whirring of hydraulics as the camera zooms in for a close-up of the card. A few seconds pass before he hears a clicking sound and the same voice invites him in.
The living room, waiting room, lobby, or whatever it is termed in a bungalow that is now an office, is dimly lit. It looks like a comfortable living room but is decorated with the professional flair of an office. The furniture and fixtures look as if they have been designed by the same person who did the victim’s house, soft leather sofas, and glass-topped coffee tables with stainless-steel legs, all expensive. Display cases, with RT’s latest award-winning designs, line one wall. Posters in large frames line another. The door clicks as it locks itself behind him, and the same voice asks him to register. Seeing no reception counter, he turns towards the voice to see a Plexiglas built into the wall with a silhouette behind it. Pressing his authority card against the Plexiglas, he
says, “Can I speak to the person in charge?”
The silhouette does not answer; instead, it pushes a register book and a pen through an opening below the Plexiglas. He writes his name, contact number, designation, and leaves the column for the person he wants to meet, blank. He pushes the register book back and the silhouette says, “Please have a seat, I’ll inform Miss Irene.” He hears the word ‘Miss’ and feels offended, convinced that a wet-behind-the-ears clerk is being sent to talk to him. Corporate people only meet the brass. Inspectors, to them, are too far down the ladder. Walking back to the sofa, he sees a hospitality counter with several jars of biscuits, and a range of hot and cold drinks. He wants some coffee but is afraid he might not be able to work the strange-looking contraptions. He is dying for a smoke, and looks for an ashtray. He doesn’t find any. He asks the silhouette if smoking is permitted. The answer is, ‘No.’
He hears a click and turns around to locate the source. He sees a tiny green blinking light on the wall, as a door opens and a smartly dressed middle-aged woman enters.
“Inspector Mislan, I’m Irene Rijanti,” she says, extending her hand.
He shakes her long soft hand, saying, “Thank you for seeing me. Do you have somewhere we can talk in private?” She is not what he expects.
“Yes, we can use my office,” she says, turning back to where she came from, and punches some numbers on a camouflaged keypad. He hears another click and the door she came through reopens. She leads him to another area that looks more like the living room of a movie celebrity than an office. She walks with an air of confidence, and the elegance of a woman who has been on a thousand catwalks. The flirtatious sway of her rear, the bouncing of her long curly hair and the lingering scent of her perfume tease, taunt and intoxicate. Irene Rijanti looks like one of those women who age, but never grow old, never become outdated or irrelevant.
21 Immortals Page 4
