by Zoë Ferraris
Dossari was different. He was a citizen, and although it was possible that he had also left the country, it would have shown up on police records. There was no record of him ever applying for a passport. Mu’tazz had even called the Ministry of the Interior’s secret service to beg some information. The Mabahith kept tabs on people, and maybe they had something on Dossari. Dossari could even have become a Mabahith or a Mukhabarat agent himself. But Mu’tazz’s contact at the agency came back with a frank explanation that they had no record of the guy and that he didn’t work for them. From all of this, Mu’tazz had concluded that Dossari had gone underground and changed his name.
So he tried a different tack. He still believed that Dossari had stolen the box from the marina warehouse back in 1989. When body parts began showing up around the city, the police had gone straight for Dossari. He had been arrested in the Osiris case, but the confession seemed to have been coerced and they had not come up with enough evidence to convict him. He was eighteen at the time. Eventually, they’d let him go. Technically, they hadn’t had to, but the chief had been a merciful man.
Mu’tazz’s research into serial killers had taught him that they showed early signs of cruelty and lack of empathy and were often noted in schools and sometimes on police records for crimes like pyromania and animal abuse. And indeed, that’s why Dossari had been on the boat that day: he’d been found guilty of killing a neighbor’s donkey. But he hadn’t just killed it: he had burned half its backside with cigarettes, then cut out its eyes, cut off its ears and tail, and skinned it—all while it was still alive. Back in the eighties, most parents would have taken a boy like that straight to an exorcist. Of course he had to be purified, but he also needed a good doctor, which only the police rehabilitation program provided. He was assigned to a counselor, one Dr. Saleh.
Mu’tazz had looked for Saleh and found that he had died in a house fire in 1992.
He didn’t report any of this to Ibrahim because it wasn’t going to help anyone. He had quietly notified one of the younger men, Shaya, that he had his own ideas about the investigation and that he was searching for a kid from a twenty-year-old case. Shaya promised to keep an eye out for the name Dossari, but he hadn’t been that interested in hearing about him. Apparently the name had never come up since Shaya hadn’t gotten back to him. Mu’tazz had no idea what Ibrahim was actually doing with his time—aside from ordering shakedowns of Sitteen and cavorting not so privately with the girls in forensics.
Ever since he’d been put in charge of the case, he’d been miserable. Now all the work of coordinating the team—and keeping fires lit under a hundred bureaucratic asses all over the city—had become his responsibility. There was no more time for thinking creatively. That was someone else’s job. They would bring their creative ideas to him, and he’d get to tell them how sharp they were and then make sure that the ideas were executed. It was all a bunch of grunt work, really. Not to mention that being at the center of attention went against all his instincts of modesty.
Riyadh had assured him that it was only temporary, so he’d agreed. He tried not to complain to anyone. He tried not to lose his temper or start secretly hating the whole office. He kept his mind focused on getting things done. If there was one thing he believed in, it was that when you set yourself on the path of righteousness, God would help. You just had to pay attention to His signs.
Majdi had given him a large photo showing an aerial view of the desert site with the women’s bodies posed in the shapes of the letters. The photo took up his entire desk, leaving only a little room for the lamp and the telephone. After Miss Hijazi’s discovery, Mu’tazz had been furious with himself. He’d spent enough time thinking about the case, looking at photographs, reading reports, that he should have noticed the pattern himself. That’s what he excelled at—seeing things on paper. But he’d missed it, dumb fool. He finally decided that the sheer depravity of such a thing would not normally have occurred to him, and he forgave himself. Then he got down to the business of studying the photos.
Two things were obvious. First, the killer thought he was an artist. One of those modern guys like Baldaccini who couldn’t just stick to canvas and ink but had to impose his artistic vision on public spaces, like roundabouts or buildings or that fountain in the Red Sea, the one they jokingly called “the king’s bidet.” In this case, it was the desert. It put the killer in that class of self-important pricks who, unfettered, would someday start manipulating clouds to resemble phalluses, or tear down whole forests to draw women’s naked bodies. Thank God the government kept a handle on those guys.
Second, even though the message was religious and people kept saying he was a religious fanatic, clearly he was nothing of the sort. He was the opposite: an apostate. Mu’tazz would bet a whole month’s salary that this killer had given up on religion long ago. Never mind the obvious cruelty and evil of the murders; if the desert site was his canvas, then it was blasphemous for one big reason: it depicted the human form. Any rendering of the human body was treacherously close to idolatry, and therefore forbidden. It had been that way since the inception of Islam.
So they were looking for a blasphemous artist, nothing else.
A week ago he’d started making phone calls to art institutes, galleries, metalsmiths. There were no doubt plenty of blasphemous artists hiding in various crannies in the city, but there wouldn’t be that many who were self-important and twisted enough to do something blatant like this. People like that tended to want to be noticed, and he was counting on that flaw. He was trusting in God. A prayer ran through his head all hours of the day: Praise be to Allah. He will show you His signs and you will recognize them.
Sighing, he opened a folder and got to work.
42
Amina al-Fouad’s house was a testimony to the determination of its housemaids. It was spotless, its polished stone floors and clean white furniture showing no trace at all of the children who lived there.
A housemaid met her at the door. Her face was drawn with grief, and when Katya explained that she was with the police, the woman’s eyes began to well with tears. She invited her in and took her into the main room before she excused herself for a moment.
Katya stood in the quiet space and tried to gather her thoughts before being assaulted by every last detail of Amina’s world. The killer targeted immigrant women. Amina was the exception. She was a Saudi housewife with six children and an overprotective husband who claimed that she never left the house without his permission and that when she did leave the house, she went to women-only shopping malls. If shopping for her niece’s birthday was the only time she had gone to a mall that was open to men and women, it seemed improbable that she had just happened to walk right into the killer and that he had kidnapped her on the spot. Malls were crowded places. Someone would have noticed.
The killer liked everything organized. Planned. Maybe he was angry that the police had found his secret graveyard, but whatever anger he felt about the way the world worked was always turned into a structured response. He had probably seen Amina before he’d kidnapped her, and although she wasn’t his previous type, something about her had attracted him. What was it?
The housemaid returned with an apology and introduced herself as Joy. No one was at home except the other housemaid, Maria, who was preparing dinner. The children were out or at school and the father was at work. They were all, she said, making an effort to keep their hope alive. It’s what Amina would have wanted.
“I was wondering if I could ask you some questions,” Katya said.
“The police have already talked to Abu-Jamal,” Joy replied, referring to Amina’s husband.
“I’m thinking there may be things that Abu-Jamal couldn’t tell them about his wife,” Katya said in a carefully neutral tone.
“Oh no,” Joy replied. “Amina was a good mother and wife. She would never have kept secrets from her husband.”
They were standing in the living room, and Katya was beginning to wonder if she would
be invited to sit down and have a drink. That, she thought, is probably what Amina would have done.
“This isn’t information that’s going to go into the official report,” she said. “You understand. As a woman, I don’t have an obligation to tell the investigators everything.”
Joy’s expression seemed to loosen a little.
“I’m sure Abu-Jamal has told us everything he possibly can that will help us find his wife,” Katya went on, “but was there something he couldn’t tell us, perhaps because he didn’t know?”
Joy pressed her lips together. It was surprising how quickly she capitulated. “Come into the bedroom.”
They went down a hallway and entered the master bedroom. The bed was covered in a floral quilt, a pair of expensive pillows, and a chenille throw. Various dressers and wall hangings exhibited the same shades of pink and pale green. Joy went through a doorway and into a closet and came back with a duster. “I brought you in here because I don’t want Maria to overhear this,” she whispered. “She’s been here longer than me, and she’s really devoted to the family, if you know what I mean.”
Katya came to the dresser and watched as Joy dusted.
“I don’t know if this can help you,” Joy said, “but I’ll just tell you. Amina went out a lot. Her kids are all in school now, and she hated being at home alone all day. She usually went to visit her sister or her cousin, but she didn’t do that all the time. Some days she would just go to the mall. She even went to that big one by herself—what’s it called? Red Sea Mall?”
“Did she usually tell you where she went?” Katya asked.
“Yes,” Joy said. “You see, Maria keeps tabs on her and reports things to Abu-Jamal. I don’t do that.”
“Can you tell me where she went before she disappeared? Anywhere she might have come into contact with men?”
Joy rolled her eyes. “Well, she got into cabs if she needed to, but only when Maria had a day off. I know the police were asking about that. She would never tell her husband about going to the malls, and I don’t think he would have minded that except that she had to get into a cab to get there because her son was at school and couldn’t give her a ride.”
There was a noise from down the hall and Joy dropped the duster. “Stay here,” she whispered, heading out the door.
Katya looked around. Amina’s closet was sparse, but the items in it were expensive. Not difficult to imagine why. An upper-middle-class woman with children in private school. A ball gown for weddings. A pair of designer jeans. Her taste was a bit conservative. Katya moved out of the closet and walked around the room.
A bookcase in the corner contained no books, just a few mothering magazines and a heart-shaped box full of glass beads that looked like it belonged to some abandoned craft project. The rest of the shelves contained photos of her family in expensive gold and silver frames. On the opposite side of the room, her husband’s closet was small and well organized. Black suits. Pinstripes. Yves Saint Laurent. One half of the closet was filled with white robes and neatly pressed headscarves. A row of shoes.
The housemaids kept it clean, but Amina had kept it sterile. Katya felt an ache. What sort of person felt comfortable living without at least one item of clothing discarded on the carpet? Come on. An old box on the closet floor? She was so annoyed by the orderliness of the whole apartment that she might have suspected the husband of being the killer if he hadn’t had a solid alibi.
What happens to a woman who is made to sit at home all day while her kids are in school, who has one housemaid who reports to the husband about her behavior and another who kowtows to the senior servant? When everything is uniform, down to the matching blinds, doesn’t a sense of emptiness open up in your chest? It had hit Katya within minutes of arriving. She had an instinct to flee. Shake it off. Mess up her hair, dirty her shoes. How did Amina respond to the austerity?
Katya studied the items on the dresser. A hairbrush. A picture of Amina’s children in their school uniforms. Another picture of Amina and her husband. Behind a little screen stood a wooden jewelry box lined with velvet and filled to the brim with gold and baubles. The items had been tidied—probably by Joy—but the sheer volume of jewelry and the fact that the box was open suggested a reaction to the sterility.
Joy returned, vastly annoyed and shaking her head.
“Can I ask you something?” Katya said. “Did Amina ever have any artwork commissioned?”
“No.”
“What about calligraphy?”
“No, not really. Ah, but one thing!” Setting down the duster, she opened the top drawer of the dresser, revealing a few dozen jewelry boxes, the kind you could buy at most jewelry stores. Each box was about the size of a large wallet.
“Are those full?” Katya asked.
“Yes.” Joy let out a laugh. “This was her latest.” She took out a red box and pried it open. Inside was a rather traditional display: half a dozen rings, six sets of earrings, a bracelet with charms. From the top half of the box hung a few necklaces in different lengths. In boxes like these, all of the items would be in a matching style and usually set with the same gemstones. This one was plain gold, and each piece was decorated with the name Amina written in a beautiful script.
Every woman had a box like this. If the jewelry inside didn’t show her name, it showed at least the first letter of it. But this collection was unusual. The name was not simply written; it was curved into shapes—a bird, a fleur-de-lis. The object was different on every piece. Even on one of the tiny rings, the artist had shaped her name into a perfect circle. The necklace at the center was the only thing that showed a simple A.
Something was racing through Katya’s mind, and she had to still herself to see it. The script. Calligraphy. Amina. The letter A.
The first letter, she thought. He’s doing a calligraphic primer. An alphabet.
“Where did she get this?” Katya asked.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I don’t remember. Let me think….”
“May I?” Katya took the box and pried back the velvet lining. There, at the bottom, was a small square of fabric stamped with the name of the store: RAYHAN JEWELERS.
“Rayhan Jewelers. Where is that?” She did a search on her phone and discovered that it was at the Jamjoom Center. Her stomach dropped.
“How long ago did she buy this?”
“It’s been over a month now…”
Katya was out the door before saying good-bye.
43
The Jamjoom Center, near the King’s Fountain on Falasteen Street, was a beige concrete monstrosity that sat in the shadow of a dark blue glass-and-chrome office tower. The whole complex took up four city blocks and was owned and operated by the Jamjoom family, whose patriarch, Sheikh Ahmad, had served as everything from commerce minister to director general of the national airlines in his eighty years of life. The shopping center had been fashionable in the eighties, when it was the biggest such structure in the country. Now, compared to Jeddah’s modern supermalls, Jamjoom seemed dated. Recently, the Carrefour grocery store had moved out, and the number of shoppers had dropped drastically, leaving the place feeling even more depressed.
Just before evening prayer, Katya and Nayir entered the main hall and stopped at a building map that was posted in a glass case. The tile floors of the hall had recently been polished, and the overhead lights reflected against every surface, a gaudy display. Rayhan Jewelers was tucked between a perfume store and a video-game center, where children were running about in packs, screeching and howling, while cloaked mothers struggled to keep an eye on them all.
They stopped in front of the jewelry store and looked inside. It was a modest place, a bit shabby and small, but tidy, with two display windows at the front of the store and a single long counter stretching in a U-shape along the walls. There were no smiling young saleswomen, just a single man standing at the counter talking to a female customer.
Pretending to look at the window display, Katya moved closer to the doorway and w
atched the shop owner. He was a tall man, thin and gaunt, with a broken nose and a large round head. He was leaning with one arm on the display case. He looked tired, bored. The woman said something and he reached into the case, extracted a small ring, and laid it on the counter. She picked it up.
The shop owner glanced over at Katya and she quickly looked away. Nayir was studying the jewelry in the window.
“Do you like any of these rings?” he asked.
“Not really.” She went back to watching the owner. The woman set the ring on the counter and he replaced it in the case. As the woman thanked him and turned to leave, he pushed himself up. Katya heard a clunk. It had come from his wrist. Now that he was upright, she could see that he had a prosthetic hand. It had hit the glass counter when he pushed himself up.
She spun around, feeling a painful shot of adrenaline.
“What is it?” Nayir asked.
“Let’s go.”
They began walking back toward the mall’s entrance. She regretted not having explained to Nayir what she was doing here. She hadn’t had the energy and she didn’t want him to ask questions. When she’d said jewelry store, he’d assumed it was for the wedding. She reached into her purse for her phone and it fell to the ground. Nayir picked it up. She glanced back at the store, saw the shop owner standing in the doorway now. He was watching them. There was something feral and suspicious in his eyes. He turned and went back inside.
