Bled Dry

by Abdelilah Hamdouchi

  To try to put an end to her questions, he drew close and tried to kiss her. She knew his tricks and shifted away, begrudgingly kissing him on the cheek.

  Just then there was a knock on the door.

  “Dad? Are you back?” they heard Manar ask.

  Naeema rushed behind the open walk-in closet door and hid. Despite years of marriage she still got embarrassed if the kids saw her dressed like this.

  “I got back a little while ago,” he said, his voice maintaining its authoritative tone even in joyful times such as these. “Tell Tarek to get ready to go to Marrakesh tomorrow.”

  Naeema walked into the center of the room wearing a long dress.

  “We’ll leave tomorrow, really early, inshallah,” she added.

  Detective Hanash put on his pajamas. Naeema looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

  “My poor daughter—if she hadn’t delivered so early I’d be there now,” she griped, wanting to remind him that he was now a grandfather.

  “When you delivered Atiqa things went smoothly. No doubt it was the same for her,” he said.

  “Yeah, Atiqa’s delivery sure was easy for you! You didn’t give birth to her, and you weren’t even there to know how painful it was.”

  He regretted bringing up this distant memory.

  “I remember that I was on a case,” he said, putting on his slippers. “God damn this job.”

  Hanash sighed heavily and reminded himself that despite life’s ups and downs, he was blessed with a stable family. Naeema started picking up the clothes strewn about the bedroom as she pondered her past. She was the only one who really knew Detective Hanash. He had married her when she was twenty years old, after a very one-sided attraction. Growing up, he was the son of her family’s neighbors, and he was the last person she thought she might marry. To this day she remembered how mean he was as a kid. She only succumbed to the marriage after all the pressure her family put on her.

  Detective Hanash woke up before everyone else the next morning. He went down to the garden to play with Karet, his beloved and spoiled German shepherd. Karet had been a police dog, and was extremely well trained and obedient. He was alert at all times and had a distrustful stare.

  The detective looked up toward the kitchen, a room somewhat detached from the rest of the house.

  “Wafa!” he called to their maid. “Where are you?”

  Wafa rushed out and stood in front of him. She was in her twenties and from a Bedouin background. Her face was sallow and her eyes were slightly bloodshot, as if she’d been crying.

  “Yes sir,” she mumbled.

  She always assumed the same posture in his presence—she’d stand submissively with her eyes fixed on the ground in front of her. She didn’t behave this way because she was treated harshly, but this timid attitude was a result of the difficult life she’d had. Her father had murdered her mother following some trivial argument. He was now in prison, serving a thirty-year sentence, and her mother was resting peacefully six feet underground. Hanash had intervened on Wafa’s behalf after she spent three nights sleeping in the precinct with nowhere to go. He had felt sorry for her, and after consulting with his wife, brought her back to work in their home. Naeema promised her she’d have a place with them until she could find her a suitable husband.

  “After the family leaves for Marrakesh,” Hanash told her, “let Karet off his leash in the garden and give him his food as usual. Do not open the door for anyone.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you wash the car windows?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He gave a nod, indicating his satisfaction. Wafa headed back into the kitchen and Manar came outside wearing jeans and a revealing tank top, as was the fashion these days. He avoided looking in her direction, which she knew meant he didn’t approve of her clothes.

  Manar was an extremely skinny twenty-seven-year-old. She had a light olive complexion, taking after her father, and brown eyes. Her hair was always perfectly done, which was a professional obligation. She hadn’t finished high school due to her infatuation with this wealthy brat of a kid who Hanash had found no way of getting kicked out of the country, despite his best efforts. Unable to sway her the least bit, he and Manar arrived at an agreement in which they would get engaged. But Manar’s engagement to the man of her dreams eventually extended beyond the two-year mark, and it became clear, even to her, that this guy was an irresponsible idiot who took advantage of women. The engagement was broken off quietly. Hanash didn’t speak to his daughter for an entire month after this episode. When she started talking about leaving the country he got nervous, and came to a compromise with her. He told her to choose a profession to keep her busy and he’d support her. She chose hairdressing, a choice he reluctantly accepted, since it did not have the greatest reputation.

  The family piled into the car to head to Marrakesh, and Tarek got behind the wheel.

  “Don’t forget, it’s my car,” Hanash warned him. “Drive carefully and don’t get angry if someone cuts past you.”

  “Let’s go!” said Naeema impatiently.

  She was sitting in the back, while Manar was in the passenger’s seat next to her brother. Naeema wanted to get on the road, fearing that any little thing might delay their departure, as had happened plenty of times before.

  As the noxious smell entered his nose Hanash hastily closed the police car’s windows. Just up ahead he saw an oddly colored cloud that had enveloped the industrial area of Ain Seba, just outside Casablanca. This area was considered the most polluted place in the country. He drove on until he found a spot to park the car in front of the electric cable factory.

  He could have sent one of his men to the factory but with this investigation he really wanted to be on top of any new leads.

  The factory’s director welcomed him into his large office. He was a handsome young man wearing a crisp white shirt and a red tie. Hanash introduced himself and looked straight into the director’s eyes, in a disarming manner.

  “Do you have an employee by the name of Said bin Ali?” he asked.

  The director repeated the name to himself a couple of times. “Yes, he works here.” He then informed him that Said was off that day, and would resume work the next morning.

  “Well, he won’t be working today or tomorrow. He was murdered yesterday.”

  The director froze in his chair, frightened that he might be accused of something. Hanash was pressed for time, so he quickly summarized the details of the murder for him.

  “He was a serious guy who valued his job,” the director reflected.

  “Did he have any enemies here at work?” Hanash asked, transitioning to the real purpose behind his visit.

  “None,” the director said confidently. “On the contrary, the employees in this factory are like one big family. We are keen on maintaining good relationships between all employees since this is crucial to team morale. Even though this factory is in Morocco, it’s run with a German mindset. I studied management in Germany and was trained to implement it.”

  Hanash gave him a smile of admiration. “I don’t need to interrogate every employee,” he said, “but the victim must have had some close friends with whom he worked.”

  The director pressed a button, which opened a door, and a security guard came in. His face was drawn, and Hanash saw that he’d heard everything from behind the door.

  “The detective has just informed me that Said bin Ali was murdered yesterday in his home,” said the director, his voice heavy with sadness.

  The security guard slumped slowly into a chair.

  “I want to know everything about Said,” Hanash stated, in a businesslike tone.

  The guard was distraught by the news and had trouble getting his words out. He praised Said’s work ethic as he fought back tears.

  “Tell me the names of his friends here at the factory,” Hanash interrupted unsympathetically.

  “He had one very close friend. They were always together.”

  �
�What’s his name?”

  “Abdel-Jalil Kazar,” the guard said, his voice trembling.

  “Bring him in immediately,” said Hanash.

  The guard hesitated, intimidated by the detective’s severe tone.

  “He’s also off today,” the director intervened. “He isn’t scheduled in until eight tomorrow morning.”

  Hanash had intended to ask more questions, but suddenly changed his mind. He took out his notepad and asked for Abdel-Jalil’s address and phone number, jotting them down quickly.

  “If anything comes to mind that could be related to this investigation, call the central precinct immediately.”

  It was two in the afternoon when he got back to his car, and he felt his stomach rumbling from hunger. He sat facing the steering wheel for a moment, trying to organize his thoughts about the case before deciding where to have lunch. On normal days, even when it was nonstop, he would sometimes give in to his wife’s insistence that he eat with the family at home. After lunch, he’d stay at the office into the evening, even though four thirty was the official end of the workday. He usually didn’t leave until after six.

  Before starting the engine to leave the industrial area he called the precinct and asked for a junior member of his team, Officer Miqla.

  “He had a close friend named Abdel-Jalil Kazar,” Hanash said. “I want him at the precinct before I get back.”

  “Yes, sir. You’ll find him waiting.”

  As Hanash drove out of Ain Seba the grayish-yellow haze of pollution gave way to a clear blue sky and the sun’s bright rays. “The only clouds in the sky are toxic manmade clouds,” he said to himself. As he thought about the atmosphere, he remembered that not a single drop of rain had touched the ground this November, and the month was nearly over. If the drought continued like this, he’d never have another summer vacation. Water shortages caused massive migration into Casablanca from the surrounding villages. The unemployment crisis would intensify, and crime would increase.

  He headed toward the posh beachfront neighborhood of Ain Diab, with its wide avenues lined with hotels and nightclubs. He left his patrol car in a no-parking zone. Life in Casablanca had gotten worse by the day, but its residents clung to it, and still considered it the country’s most beautiful city. He had to confess that he didn’t love the city, even though it was his hometown. He preferred Tangier.

  He set out on foot toward a narrow side street filled with many of the city’s best restaurants. He walked briskly, as if he were on a case. He popped his head into Restaurant Shati to look around, and realized he’d need to make other plans—the place was completely packed. But the owner of the restaurant, a man nicknamed Rubio, spotted Hanash and pulled him inside without saying a word. He led him through a hallway to his office. Rubio got his nickname because his light skin and blue eyes made him look like a Viking. After he’d closed the door behind him, he hugged Hanash warmly.

  “You were going to walk straight back out? How could you?” Rubio exclaimed in his Tangier accent. “You’re more important than all those customers out there combined. Had I known you were coming, I would have prepped your favorite table.”

  “To be honest,” said Hanash, “I don’t really have an appetite. I was passing by and I thought I’d pop my head in to say hello.”

  “You think I’m going to let you leave with an empty stomach? An order of seafood is already on the way.”

  Rubio nimbly cleared the desk and excused himself to oversee the preparation of the food personally.

  Hanash looked around the small office. It had a warmness and intimacy to it. He relaxed on the leather office chair, and suddenly it felt strange to be sitting here in this office, in the middle of a double murder investigation. He knew his men were working like dogs, but no one had called him, so there was nothing new that required him to return to the station immediately.

  An employee entered the office, mumbled a greeting, and began transforming the desk into a dining table. Hanash was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he didn’t even notice when a waiter entered to place a delicious meal in front of him.

  Every time Hanash came to this restaurant he was reminded of the golden age in Tangier when he had headed the drug-trafficking team. He sat there with this amazing seafood in front of him, but had no appetite. He hadn’t even removed his jacket; he’d only slackened his necktie a bit. He thought about his friendship with Rubio. He enjoyed Hanash’s full protection, since the days when this deeply devout Djibili man was a big-time hash dealer in Tangier. Rubio had done it the smart way: he carried out a few big jobs from which he made millions and then, based on advice from Hanash, he got out of the game for good right before the Grand Campaign. Rubio then moved to the country’s economic capital, Casablanca, where he laundered his money. He now owned a premier hotel, two gorgeous cafés, real estate, and this modern restaurant. Rubio may have successfully purged himself of certain characteristics of his country-bumpkin upbringing, but he still couldn’t get rid of his mountain accent, and his friends in Casablanca let him know it. He and Hanash had a strong bond. Rubio was the only one who really knew Hanash’s past, and Hanash was the only one who really knew Rubio’s.

  “You’re not eating,” said Rubio as he entered, closing the door and sitting on the small chair facing the detective.

  “I know the food is delicious, but I don’t have an appetite,” Hanash replied, sighing.

  “You’re not yourself. What’s up? You know you can tell me anything. Are you having trouble at work?”

  The detective stared at Rubio and smiled.

  “I’m now a grandfather,” he said. “My daughter gave birth to a little girl. Naeema and the kids are with her in Marrakesh.”

  “Congratulations, brother!” Rubio embraced him and kissed him on the cheeks in celebration.

  “I was going to go with them, but a nasty double murder got in the way.”

  “You should have shut off your cell phone and gone to see your daughter.”

  Officer Miqla returned empty-handed from Abdel-Jalil’s apartment. He left a summons letter, but that was all he could do. Every attempt at reaching Abdel-Jalil by phone resulted in the same automated message: “The number you dialed is out of range. Please call later.” His inquiries with the neighbors didn’t turn up anything of note.

  “Has this guy vanished?” he thought to himself, annoyed. He wondered if Abdel-Jalil had gotten to the neighbors already, convincing them not to say anything.

  Miqla knew that Abdel-Jalil had the day off, so it was possible he’d left the city. He left the summons requesting him to present himself at the precinct at eight the following morning, and phoned Hanash to update him.

  “He’s the male victim’s closest friend,” he barked at Miqla angrily. “He’s the key to solving this.”

  “If you want, we can put eyes on the place overnight.”

  “We’ll follow up tomorrow. If he doesn’t show up in the morning, he’ll be our primary suspect.”

  Hanash arrived home around ten o’clock. Karet greeted him with a loud bark, letting him know that he was late for their evening walk. Before heading inside he inspected every dark corner of the villa’s dimly lit garden. This was a habit he had developed in Tangier when he was involved with various drug traffickers. He used to receive at least one death threat per month. Despite the years that had passed since his transfer to Casablanca, he was still worried about payback.

  In Tangier he always knew exactly who was threatening him. He would summon them to the office and turn the tables by threatening them himself. This was all part of the psychological warfare involved in the drug game. The traffickers would try to intimidate Hanash to reduce the kickbacks they paid, and to prevent him from siding with one group over another. After all, drug trafficking was not just about exporting your goods across the Mediterranean, it also came down to building local influence. Whenever the hash supply decreased, the price skyrocketed due to increased demand. These shifts in the market were often carefully orches
trated by Hanash and the organizations that paid the highest kickbacks.

  As he petted Karet and played with him, he wondered why each murder investigation rattled him so deeply. He always felt like every corpse he encountered on the job might include some hidden message, indicative of his own death. As he went through the motions on each investigation, regardless of its circumstances, he was plagued by the idea that there might be some thread leading back to the drug traffickers in Tangier.

  The flip side was that this perpetual fear of retribution burning him up inside could only be subdued by solving the murder. This was the real secret to his dedication and success, as each murder felt like a personal attack. But with this case, he did have a real connection to the female victim, and was trying to keep it out of the case files. If this was discovered, the scandal would be catastrophic, and his professional life would be over.

  Hanash was more than just a cautious and careful man. His suspicion verged on paranoia. He couldn’t live without informants, even in his own home. His top domestic spy was his maid, Wafa, and he took her aside every evening when he returned home to hear her report about what his wife and kids had done when he was at work. He never skipped a report, no matter how trivial—it was the final piece of his workday.

  Wafa appeared and asked him if he’d like her to prepare his dinner.

  “What did you cook?”

  “Mrs. Naeema called me from Marrakesh and told me to make you a kofta and egg tagine.”

  This sentence struck a strange chord. Despite being far away in Marrakesh, his wife had not only thought about his dinner, but had called to tell Wafa what to cook him. As if he were a baby in need of feeding.

  He stretched out on the bed in his work clothes and his mind drifted. He had lived most of his life without looking back, and rarely was he alone or felt lonely. Being alone gnawed at his nerves because he would think about his life and start reevaluating everything he’d done and everyone around him. He had trouble looking at the world from any other perspective than as a detective. He started thinking about Salwa—the bleached-blonde hairdresser who used her salon as a recruiting center for prostitution. He thought again about his daughter Manar, the hairdresser. He recalled how he had advised her to think about opening a hairdressing school, so at least she could teach and not just run a salon. She had to get married soon, he thought to himself—a suitable man was bound to come along soon. It pained him to think about her broken engagement. She had left her studies without getting a degree because of this stupid relationship. “Was she even still a virgin?” he wondered.