“Money, money, money…” Matt sang while driving the Nissan back to Dubai at 120 miles per hour, waving his hand out the window.
He parked the Nissan near his home, a few blocks away. He would later exchange the plates with those from a rental he had obtained just before heading to Fujairah, and he planned to cover the last two numbers of the plate with some mud or dirt. The Nissan was already dirty from the long distance he had driven, and he only had to drive it a short distance to reach his home later that night, so it was not really that big a deal, but he knew he had to be extra careful to avoid being caught on the countless surveillance cameras. Making the plate numbers difficult to see was an easy measure but a significant one.
* * *
Friday morning, he prepared his home for his would-be guest. He covered the bedroom with layers of nylon paper, and made sure the hall room was suitable as the place where Razzaq would enjoy his last drink. Everything was in place, like a stage set and awaiting its actors. That night, the performance would be a two-man show, and the encore would be only Matt, singing a solo to Beethoven’s masterpiece.
At six p.m., Matt went to his favorite shisha place. He was greeted by the owner, Mr. Sameer, a tall Egyptian who had managed the place since it opened three years back. Matt had become a regular, and he sat at the same table every time, a four-seater that faced the iconic Burj Khalifa. He never asked for a menu, for he always ordered a cup of Turkish coffee, no sugar, a sparkling water, and his favorite watermelon mint hookah. The staff of the café enjoyed talking to him, and the friendly manager often joined him for a bit of conversation.
That night, in a discussion with Mr. Sameer, Matt mentioned that he was going to watch a movie later that evening. It was a lie, of course, but he was wise enough to place false alibis wherever he could. With a little lie here and a fib there, it would be very difficult for anyone to point a finger at him.
Around eight p.m., Matt left the hookah place and went back home, where he changed into casual clothes: dark blue jeans and a blue and white striped shirt. Ghafoor, the doorman, was on post, and Matt made sure to wave at him on the way out. He then walked the few blocks to where he had parked the Nissan, carefully changed into a plain black shirt, and put on a fake mustache, a wig, wide black glasses, and a brown jacket. He walked for a few more minutes, then took a taxi to the bar Razzaq loved to frequent.
Two and half hours later, Matt was one of the three people Razzaq bought a drink for. Matt regaled Razzaq with a tale about his safari visit to Kenya and ended the short conversation by giving the man a fake business card that indicated he was the account manager at a local bank. The card carried his fingerprints, but Hunterman had changed those over a year ago. After their short chitchat, Razzaq went on to talk to two others, a man and a woman.
Matt wisely made sure everything else he had touched that night at the bar was wiped down. He used a straw to drink his cocktails, and he made sure to take the straws with him when he left. He paid with cash he carefully removed from his wallet using some tissue; he had withdrawn the money a week ago and had never touched it with his skin. When it came to the details, he was meticulous and in control.
Matt left the bar as soon as he felt Razzaq had had enough and was also about to depart. He knew what direction Razzaq would drive after retrieving his expensive car from valet parking. Matt stood about 200 feet away, an ideal place, where he was sure there would be no chance Razzaq would miss him. From that vantage point, he could easily see Razzaq driving out of the area, and the camera located next to the traffic signal was more than 500 feet away. His plan was to act as if he was waiting for a cab. He was almost certain that Razzaq would recognize him from the bar and offer him a ride; if not, he would take the ride by force.
Five minutes later, Razzaq drove out in a four-wheel drive Lexus. Matt deliberately motioned to the car, feigning confusion and pretending he thought it was a taxi.
Razzaq stopped and rolled down the window. “Safari guy!” he said with a smile on his face.
Matt smiled back at him. “Mr. Razzaq.” He kept one hand inside his jacket pocket, ready to use a tranquilizer if he needed to enact Plan B, but he was rather confident things would not go that way.
“Where are you headed?” Razzaq asked. “Do you need a ride?”
“No, that’s okay. I can get a taxi,” Matt said.
“A taxi? No! I must insist you let me drive you, friend,” Razzaq half-said, half-slurred, wearing a stupid grin on his drunken face. “I’d love to hear more about that Kenyan adventure of yours.”
“Hmm. Well, only on one condition,” Matt said.
“And what’s that?” Razzaq asked.
“Join me at my place for a nightcap.”
Razzaq smiled at the prospect of more alcohol and happily accepted. “Hop in,” he said.
They took off, and Matt intentionally lowered himself down in the seat when they approached the traffic light camera. Even though he was well disguised, he felt it was a good time to fake tying his shoe. He loved Dubai, but the cameras were quite an annoyance, and he had to lower himself at every traffic light on the way.
“I’m parked near my friend’s place,” he lied. “There was no parking at mine. If you take me there, we can drive over to my place in my car,” he said to his unwitting chauffer.
Razzaq was too drunk to argue with the illogical plan, so he put up no dispute. When they arrived at the flat, Matt thanked his lucky stars that Ghafoor was not at his station when the two of them walked in. He liked the doorman, but things were certainly easier when Ghafoor was not there.
After two rounds of drinks, while Razzaq was sitting on the sofa, moving his hand like an orchestra conductor to Beethoven’s melodies, Matt walked up behind him with the cricket bat and banged Razzaq on the head. Matt’s heart was not set on torture that night, so it would be a relatively quick kill. He gazed smugly into Razzaq’s eyes and enjoyed the dazed look on the man’s face from the powerful bludgeoning, then stabbed him to death with three deep plunges into his chest, the third one landing the blade directly in his heart.
Again, the ice chest was packed, and pieces of human flesh and bone were tossed into the sea, save one small remnant that he had other plans for. Matt changed the plates back, drove the Nissan back to Fujairah, and told the owner to keep 1,000 because he had changed his mind and did not feel the car was right for him. Two hours later, he returned the rental car, and after driving Razzaq’s car to another close location, Matt cleaned it of any fingerprints, confident that he had once again expertly covered all his tracks.
At around seven that night, he took Daisy to the movies. They enjoyed a fast bite on their way home, and after a few kisses, he spent his first night at her place. They made love for over three hours, twice in her bed and once in the shower. Not for a second did Matt ponder what had happened the previous night. For all intents and purposes, he had figured out how to separate his mind into compartments, one for Matt, the bloody murderer, and another for Alex, the normal, hardworking, brilliant businessman who was quickly falling in love with his co-worker.
To him, Alex was only one thing: Daisy’s man. When he woke up at around six a.m. with Daisy by his side, his internal struggle for his identity began. How has she had such a profound effect on me in such a short time? He thought, looking over at her. He kissed her on the cheek, wrote a beautiful message, and quickly left.
He had enough time to take a bath and head to his office. While he had strong feelings for Daisy and usually loved working with her and being around her all day, he considered himself lucky that she would be out that day visiting with several clients. He had no time for any distractions, for his job was not yet done. There were loose ends that still needed to be tied up in a neat little bow.
At around ten a.m., he sent a text message to Razzaq’s secretary from Razzaq’s phone. “I will be out for two days,” he wrote, “for personal reasons.”
On Monday afternoon, he placed Razzaq’s finger in a small plastic bag, still wearing its gold
ring. Deeply imbedded in the flesh were two pins, with an N and H. He sent the parcel to Razzaq’s office via a public mailbox in the city.
On Wednesday night, the local newspapers went crazy with the shocking story, violence unprecedented in Dubai. In no time at all, Matt had the secret fame he’d so desired, along with a nickname of his very own; the media and the terrified general public were now referring to him as “The Pinner,” and that flattered him in a sick kind of way.
The Pinner vs. Alex
The Pinner had struck again, and every TV and radio station and social media site within the UAE and all of the Arab Gulf states were abuzz with news of the crimes. “Who is The Pinner?” they asked. “Where is he from, and what is the motive? What is the connection between his victims?” Rumors and conjectures and theories spread by the minute, some even going so far as to suggest that the culprit had been caught.
Photos were posted, video footage was shown, and every newspaper boasted a picture of the ring that was found on the finger of the dead man, complete with alphabetical pins. Within hours, a toll-free line was established for information about the case. On that line, the police received over 100 calls. Most were irrelevant, but they thought a few might provide them with some much-needed answers and lead them to their killer.
Within twenty-four hours, the second victim was identified as Abdul Razzaq Al Diyani, an expat who had been in Dubai for over twenty years, a divorcee who owned a well-known construction consulting company. Within a few days, the police had interviewed everyone who had ever met Razzaq, trying to gather as much information as they could. Official reports were updated hourly, and the police issued many statements to the press and public, begging for full cooperation and the prevention of the spread of useless information via media and Internet channels.
Matt, like everyone else, followed the news carefully, out of both curiosity and caution. He had yearned for recognition, and he got that. What he did not expect was for the police to work so quickly. Security was already high in Dubai, and now it was amped up several notches. Officers were stationed everywhere and random identification checkpoints were quickly put in action.
For the next few days, Matt lived under a continuous umbrella of paranoia. For a few hours a day, he escaped by spending more time at the factory. The constant running of the machines seemed to ease his thoughts, though not for long.
The next day, while he was talking with some of the supervisors near the beverage-mixing room, one of the workers came running in. “They have it!” he said. “The police figured out the name of the first victim.” He waved a newspaper in the air and pointed to the headlines. Just like that, Haseeb Mounir was now part of the puzzle.
The police published all the details about Haseeb, and they could confirm that the two deaths were, in fact, related. The pins were of the same make and likely from the same source, as a stranger was spotted with both, a new calling card for the killer aptly named The Pinner. Matt was impressed with the Dubai police, who more than adequately lived up to their investigation, even more so than he had anticipated. They worked at record speeds, and they were consummate professionals. I should have known better, he thought. Dubai was beautiful, but it was a small country known for its low crime rate and high security, and the pressure began to build.
In terror of finally being caught for his dirty deeds, Matt spent hours recalling every detail of his two crimes, considering any probable mistake he might have made. He replayed the crimes second by second. As far as he could recall, he had left nothing uncovered, nothing that would lead them to him, but he was not sure. On one hand, he was happy with the whole Pinner story, but he did not want it to be a happy ending for the police and an unhappy one for him. He had really only just begun as the legendary Pinner, and he did not want failure to be associated with that name.
Matt’s mind was busy with worries, but that was only one problem. He was also facing an internal struggle of identity. He was becoming Alex, and that was a metamorphosis he was simply not ready for. He was conflicted, living a double-life, and at moments, this threw him into such a mental tailspin that he considered ending it all. As Alex, he could have an exciting new life with Daisy, but at night, Matt was in control again, stronger, smarter, and more confident and motivated than ever.
Matt had a choice to make. He had two options: lay low for a few days, observe, and let the whole thing calm down; or hit them again as soon as possible, while the police and the whole city were still confused. Knowing that the latter was a chess move that would put The Pinner on a whole new level, That was the choice he ultimately made.
* * *
He had to act fast, but fortunately, no serious planning was necessary. It would be an easy job this time, with fewer details to tend to, and it would not necessitate false identification or used cars. All he needed was a good disguise, and he had mastered that over the years. He also required an isolated place, a random victim, and another pin to mark his crime.
The area was chosen: It would take place in one of the industrial areas on the outskirts of Dubai, where the cameras were less frequent. Fewer taxis were available there, so hitching rides from strangers was common practice. Of course nothing was free, but most regular commuters would accept fewer dirhams than a normal taxi fare.
Matt had learned that valuable lesson from Omar, his colleague. When he asked about taking a cab from the Ford dealer in that area, when he had to leave his car there overnight for maintenance, Omar said, “You might find it difficult to locate a taxi, as only a few of them patrol the area. A lot of drivers will offer rides for a small fee, and it’s a pretty safe way to go.” During his first car checkup, Matt confirmed that all Omar had told him was true. He saw no cabs, but a passerby offered him a ride, and all went smoothly. Now, he would hitch a ride again, albeit for entirely different reasons.
Matt disguised himself in typical Arab garb: a white dishdasha, an overall dress that covered his whole body from neck to toe, and black leather sandals. He darkened his skin with tanning cream and applied a fake beard and black hair.
Like all the other pedestrians there, he waited on a quiet road just after dark. A few minutes passed, but not a single car had gone by. He had to wait ten minutes before someone stopped to offer him a ride. Little did that Good Samaritan know that he was going to be his passenger’s next victim.
Matt had driven around the area two days previously, and he had already chosen the spot where he would pretend to be sick and ask the driver to stop the car. When they were close to the vacant parking lot, Matt motioned to the driver that he was going to throw up.
“Damn! I’ll pull over in here,” the driver said.
Matt opened the car door and bent out the door, gagging and feigning nausea. Then, in one quick instant, he turned around and stabbed the driver in the chest with his trusty Swiss army knife. With lightning speed, he pulled the blade out and stabbed him again. He pulled the stunned man’s head back by the hair and made one quick slice across his throat, slashing him from ear to ear. He watched the driver gargle and choke on his own blood as his soul left his body. Matt then turned the engine off, placed a cover over the windows, then reclined the driver’s seat. He stuck a pin in the man, this time an E.
He got out of the car and walked a few hundred feet. At a corner, he took a sack out of his pocket. He quickly undressed. Under his dishdasha, he was already wearing a tight white shirt and off-white trousers. He stuffed his bloody costume in the sack and walked for another ten minutes to a more crowded shopping center, where his car was parked among dozens of others. Half an hour later, he was making love to Daisy. This time more intense than before.
* * *
The events that took place in the days that followed confused Matt. At first, there was no mention of the killing in the press, even though the papers and news reports and websites were still discussing the first two crimes. Matt found that quite odd and figured it had to be some sort of trap. Trying to make a clever move and catch me in a checkmate, are
you? He thought, and he refused to fall for any of it. He was not going to do anything foolish to help them fish him out. He was sure they would be staking out the entire area, looking for anything and anyone suspicious, so he thought it best to escape for a while.
He needed to loosen up. It was going to be a long weekend, as there was a public holiday that Thursday. Daisy told Matt she would love to go away with him for a few days, so he eagerly accepted her invitation to do so.
They chose Muscat in Oman, and they stayed at the beautiful Shangri La Resort. For the first time in years, Matt really felt alive. Daisy was something else. She was a sparkling ball of joy to all those around her, and if there was any soft, innocent spot left in Matt, she played on it. Hour after hour, willingly or not, Matt was turning into Alex.
That night, he woke up around three a.m. He crawled out of bed easily, so as not to disturb his sleeping beauty, and went for a walk around the resort. The place was amazing, surrounded by mountains and the sea. A full moon was out, beaming silvery light down on the glassy ocean and the rippling surface of the gorgeous blue pools.
Matt sat down on a bench at the beach and stared out at the water. “What’s next?” he asked himself, rubbing his aching temples. “What do I do now?”
As he sat there, memories of his last few years flashed through his head. He would have been lying if he said his hatred for the world had dissipated, but Daisy had somehow managed to cause his rage to fade. This left him feeling completely lost and confused, unsure of who he was. Do I deserve a second chance, Matt asked himself? Wondering.
He closed his eyes and asked himself again, this time in a louder voice, “What’s next?”
Suddenly, soft hands touched his back, and a few words were sweetly whispered in his ear. “I’m next, Alex. I love you.”
Recognizing the scent of Daisy’s perfume, Matt opened his eyes and instantly smiled at her. She was always beautiful, but with the moonlight glistening in the strands of her hair, she was absolutely angelic in his eyes. “Sit,” he said, patting the bench beside him.
Matt: A Matt Godfrey Short thriller Trilogy Page 8
