3
WHEN JOHAN STARTS THE car, Mislan turns the air-conditioning on at full blast, leans back, and waits for the interior to cool before resetting the thermostat to 73 degrees Fahrenheit.
“It’s humid tonight. I’m all sweaty and sticky,” he remarks.
“It’s that time of year. Where do you want to start, male or female?” Johan says.
“The female deceased’s address is Beverly Heights, right?”
“Number 3, Jalan 2A, Beverly Heights.”
“That’s close by, let’s start there.”
They exit the expressway to the DUKE and make a U-turn back toward the city and cut left to Beverly Heights. At the guardhouse, Johan flashes his police authority card and asks the security guard for directions. It is a middle high-end suburban-gated community housing estate. The roads are lined with bungalows and semidetached houses with the minimum of two cars under the carport and in the driveways.
“It’s close to ten, you think they’re still awake?” Johan asks.
“It’s the fasting month, I’m sure they’re up.”
Walking up to the front gate, Johan rings the bell and waits. After about thirty seconds, he rings the bell again. The porch lights up and the front door opens. A woman appears at the grille of the front door and looks at them.
“Who’s that?” Her diction sounds Indonesian.
“Police,” Johan replies, holding his card above the gate.
“Hold on, ya,” the woman responds and the door closes.
A minute passes before the front door opens again, followed by the grille, and two women step out to the porch. The automatic gate swings open, and the two D9 officers walk up the driveway. Johan displays his authority card for identification again.
“As-salamu-alaikum,” Johan greets the women, peace be upon you. “I’m Detective Sergeant Johan and this is Inspector Mislan.”
Together the elderly women reply, mu-alaikum-salam—peace be upon you, too.
“What’s going on?” one of the women asks anxiously.
“Is this Mrs. Zaleha Jalani’s house?”
“Miss,” she corrects him. “Yes, it is. Is there a problem? Is she in some kind of trouble?”
“And, ma’am, you are?”
“I’m her mother, Khatijah.”
“May we come in?”
“Sorry. Yes, yes, please come in,” Khatijah says, stepping aside. “Something has happened to my child, hasn’t it?” she says, her anxiety mounting.
“I think it’s better for you to sit down,” Johan suggests.
“Is your husband home?” Mislan asks.
“My husband has passed away. Has something happened to Leha?” she asks again.
“Your daughter has been in an accident—”
Before Johan can finish his sentence, the women wail, “Ya Allah, Leha’s gone,” and hug one another, crying and weeping.
The two D9 officers wait for the initial shock to pass. This is the part of police work Mislan dislikes the most. No matter how many times he has done it, he can never get used to it. This is one task where experience does not make it any easier. There is no easy way to tell parents that their child is dead.
“When, where, what happened?” Khatijah meekly asks, as if uncertain she really wants to know.
“The best we can say for now is that it happened around 8:30 tonight. She and Mr. Mahadi were found dead in a car on the expressway. Do you—”
The word “dead” triggers a fresh bout of wailing, again stopping Johan mid-sentence. When the wailing subsides, Johan continues, “It’s too early for us to determine what happened, and we’re still at the stage of preliminary investigations.” He pauses, letting her digest his reply. “Do you know who Mr. Mahadi was?”
“Leha’s partner.”
“Business partner?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where they went or were going tonight?”
“She said she was breaking fast with him, but I don’t know where. How did it happen?”
“We’re still trying to put the facts together. Were Miss Zaleha and Mr. Mahadi . . . mmm . . . together?”
The women look at Johan.
“I mean, were they a couple?”
“She didn’t tell me anything, but she talked about him a lot.”
“Was Miss Zaleha ever married?” Mislan asks.
“No, why?”
“Was she seeing anyone?”
“She didn’t tell me, but I know they were seeing one another. A mother can sense these things.”
“How long had they been together?”
“Leha brought him to the house about two years ago, when we first moved in. So, I guess they must have been together longer than that.”
“Was Mr. Mahadi married?”
Khatijah nods.
“I told her it was not proper to go out with a married man, but she kept saying it was business. I could tell it was more than business.”
“Did you disapprove of their relationship?” Johan asks.
“Sergeant, it’s not a question of approval.
I’m a woman and a mother. I know how a wife feels when there is a third person in a marriage. If it’s Leha’s fate to be the second wife to a married man, so be it. But if she had a choice, she shouldn’t. That’s my opinion, but I’m from the old school.”
Johan agrees with her.
“Is it possible for us to see Miss Zaleha’s room?” Mislan asks.
She nods, stands, and leads them upstairs.
Careful Lan, this is where it all begins, Mislan warns himself. Your first step into the deceased’s life—the beginning of nightmares, of intimacy that can only be exorcised through closure. He fights back the urge to sit this one out, to let Johan handle it alone. Standing at the deceased’s bedroom door, he watches as his assistant walks into Zaleha’s room, into her past, her hopes and dreams, a world he knows they will almost certainly obsess over. If this was indeed a murder-suicide, she must have been the victim. But what could she have done to be murdered by her business partner? If it was a lovers’ suicide pact, what drove her to it? Without realizing it, Mislan takes a few steps into the room, drawn by the desire to understand.
Zaleha, being the man of the house, occupied the master bedroom. The room is modestly furnished with a queen-sized bed, a built-in wardrobe, and a dressing table. In one corner, there is a stand with an LCD TV, an ASTRO cable-network decoder, and a Blu-ray player. A digital clock-radio and two framed photos sit on the nightstand. One of the photos is of her with her parents, and the other is of her with a few others including the male deceased. They were seated around a dining table, probably in a posh restaurant, with the Sydney Opera House in the background. The deceased were not seated next to each other, but from their eyes you can see they were smiling to each other.
“Mrs. Khatijah, may we look around to see if your daughter left anything that might help us to understand the incident better?” Johan asks.
“I really don’t feel it is right for me to let you go through her stuff. There might be things here better left private to her,” the mother says, unsure if she should allow it or if she has the right to stop the police.
“We understand, but it could help our investigation. We’ll do it in your presence,” Mislan assures her.
Khatijah is silent for a moment then nods her consent. They start with the wardrobe. The victim’s dresses are meticulously arranged according to style and length. The drawers in the wardrobe are just as systematically compartmentalized, with the clothes folded tidily. Everything has a place and everything is in its place. The dressing table drawers reveal many pieces of custom-made jewelry and accessories. An organized person. He points to a carrying case leaning against the dressing table.
“May we take a look inside?” Again, he notes the doubt on the mother’s face and adds, “It’s all right. We won’t take anything without your consent.”
She picks up the briefcase, lays it on the bed, and nods again. Johan unzips it, extracts the contents, and carefully spreads them on the bed. Mislan picks up a planner he sees and leafs through it while his assistant examines the rest.
“Do you know what business Miss Zaleha’s company was in?”
“Construction, I think.”
“Did she mention any of her concerns to you?”
“No, she was not the type to discuss such matters with me or her siblings.”
“Do you know if she had any enemies?”
Khatijah shakes her head.
“How about her moods? Was she disturbed or depressed?”
“Leha was always cheerful, full of life, and always optimistic about everything. I dread to think what would’ve happened to me and the family when my husband passed away if it hadn’t been for Leha.”
“What about friends? Did she have a close friend, someone she confided in?’
“I guess that would have to be Ayn, they were close.”
“Do you have Ayn’s full name and contact number?” Johan asks.
“It’s in my cell phone.”
“May I hold on to this planner for a while? I’ll return it as soon as I’m done,” Mislan says.
“Why?”
“There might be something in here that could help us understand her movements, the people she met, or the schedule she kept. We may need to talk to some of them.”
She is reluctant but agrees.
“Does she have a laptop, a computer?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t see one here.”
“Maybe she left it in the office or her car. Why?”
“We’d like to look at it, too. It may contain information that could be helpful.”
“Let me check the car,” she says, leading them downstairs.
Johan retrieves a laptop from the passenger seat.
“Thank you. I’ll return the diary and laptop as soon as I’m done with them. Thank you for your time. Again, please accept our condolences. Miss Zaleha’s body will be sent to the Kuala Lumpur Hospital. Inspector Murad from Sentul police is the investigating officer for this case, but you can call me on this number should you need any assistance. Please call Inspector Murad on this number to arrange for the release of the body.”