4

DRIVING OUT OF BEVERLY Heights, the D9 officers are quiet. Mislan lights a cigarette, lowers the window, and stares out into the dark. As they hit the Middle Ring Road 2, Johan asks if he wants to visit Mahadi’s family in Bukit Damansara. Mislan turns away from the window and looks at the clock on the dashboard.

“It’s already close to midnight, and by the time we locate the house it’ll be late. I’m sure Murad would have contacted the family already. Let’s stop for a drink and I’ll check with him.”

“Anyplace, in particular?”

“Kampung Baru, I’m hungry.”

Stopping at one of the many roadside stalls along Jalan Raja Alang in Kampung Baru, Mislan calls Inspector Murad. He is informed that the bodies are already in the Kuala Lumpur Hospital morgue. The deceased’s vehicle is with Chew in the Forensics garage, and Mahadi’s family has been notified.

“Where are you guys?” Murad asks.

“In Kampung Baru having dinner,” Mislan tells him. “How’re you classifying the case?”

“My SIO said to go with 302 for now.”

So his senior investigating officer is going with murder. “What did you brief him to come to such a classification?”

“Nothing, just what was at the scene,” Murad says defensively.

“I know what you guys are trying to do,” Mislan says with a chuckle. “What?”

“Offload the case. Let me know if something breaks.”

“Sure. Is Special investigations not taking this case?”

“What did your SIO say?”

“The first words from his mouth: Can we pass this on?” Murad says, followed by laughter.

Mislan chuckles. “I’ll let you know tomorrow after I brief my boss.” Just as he terminates the call, his cell phone rings.

“Mislan,” he answers, taking a sip of his iced black coffee.

“Sir, we got an armed robbery at Petronas gas station on Jalan Peel. Four men, most likely Malay.”

“Casualties?”

“One casualty reported, minor injury, pistol-whipped.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“What was that?” Johan asks.

“Armed robbery; Petronas station, Jalan Peel. . . . Let’s skip dinner.”

Johan drives out of Kampung Baru, makes a right onto Jalan Tun Razak, and drives past the Royal Selangor Golf Club straight to the Kampung Pandan roundabout. At the roundabout, he takes the slip-off at 10 o’clock to the Petronas gas station about five hundred yards up the road.

“You think it’s the Wira gang?” Johan asks as he pulls into the station.

“Every time a festival is around the corner, every Amat, Ah Chong, Muthu, and enforcement officer will try to make a quick buck. It could be anybody.”

“Festive season robberies,” Johan says, “I think the gangs have some sort of understanding. Before Raya, the Malay gangs do their thing, robbing petrol kiosks, breaking into houses, and snatching purses. Before Chinese New Year, Chinese gangs target goldsmiths, gambling dens, and girlie bars.”

“How about Deepavali and Christmas?”

Johan laughs. “I’ve not figured that out yet.”

The gas station is crowded with holiday-makers filling their tanks, curious onlookers, and uniformed police personnel. Johan honks to move the crowd away and parks the car. Stepping out, the officers give the surroundings the once-over. The roads around the area are quiet, but all the mamak—Indian-Muslim—stalls and restaurants are full of customers, young and old.

“Jo, did the caller who called in about the DUKE incident know any of the other onlookers? I mean, did he speak to them or recognize them?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“You have his contact details, in case we need to talk to him again?”

“Yeah, he works at the Setapak army camp.”

In the convenience store, Mislan sees two station employees at the counter with several armed policemen. A Special Investigations detective approaches them.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Evening. Who’s the IO?”

“Inspector Kula,” the detective replies, jerking his head toward the convenience store.

“Losses?”

“RM1,200, two cell phones, some cigarettes and beers. Four men drove up to the pump, two went into the store pretending to pay for the petrol and to buy drinks. Then one of them pulled a gun and emptied the cash register while the other grabbed the rest of the stuff. The cashier tried to resist and was whipped across the head with the butt of the gun. Nothing serious, just minor injuries. Both workers are Bangladeshi.”

“They must be legal,” Johan remarks.

The detective looks at him, puzzled.

“Otherwise, they would’ve bolted before the police arrived.”

“CCTV?”

“Dummies. The workers got the car registration number. We ran it. False.”

“Description?”

“Husin showed them some photos, and the cashier picked out one of them, a former member of the Green Screwdriver gang nicknamed Din Mayat—Din the Corpse.”

“I thought the Green Screwdriver gang specialized in housebreaking,” Johan says.

“They do, but Din Mayat is an ex. Maybe he joined another gang, or started a new one,” the detective explains.

“Has Ops been notified?” Mislan asks.

“Yes.”

“Okay, let’s see what the investigating officer thinks.”

As they are walking toward the convenience store, the inspector’s cell phone rings.

“Mislan.”

“Mislan, Murad here. The male victim’s family has just arrived with a few big guns. You may want to be here.”

“Who are they?”

“I recognize one as someone in politics. I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen him on TV.”

“Has he said anything?”

“I think they’re looking for me. I was in the toilet when they arrived. When I saw them as I was walking back to the morgue, I decided to keep my distance and observe. Are you coming?” Murad asks, sounding desperate.

“I’ve got an armed robbery. Why don’t you find out what they want? I’ll be down once I’m done here.”

“OK.”

The district investigating officer sounds relieved.

“Murad, don’t agree to any of their requests, especially for the release of bodies until the postmortem is done. Who’s the pathologist?”

“OK. The pathologist is Dr. Matthews. I’ve not worked with him before.”

“OK. Play it by the book.” Terminating the call, Mislan says, “Jo, can you handle things here? I have to run down to the hospital. Murad says some big shots are there for the deceased.”

“No problem. You want me to come down after finishing here?”

“Yes, do that and keep the car. I’ll get one of the MPVs to drive me. And Jo, get ASP Ghani’s special project team in on this, too, I’m sure he’d love to make this his project.”

It is 1:15 a.m. and the hospital complex is quiet and deserted except for the Emergency & Trauma Center. The Medical Forensics facility building is at the back. When the MPV approaches the building, Mislan sees several media vehicles lining the road. He tells the MPV to drive past the main gate and stop a distance away. Getting out, he casually strolls back toward the gate, checking out the surroundings and trying not to attract attention. He observes quite a number of black Toyota Vellfires, the luxury multipurpose vehicle, and black Toyota Harrier SUVs, the Southeast Asia version of Lexus, parked along the road close to the gate. In the tiny Medical Forensic compound, he counts three Mercedes and two BMWs parked irresponsibly, blocking the access. Two milling crowds, one at the ambulance parking shed and another at the entrance to the morgue. He makes out the crowd at the ambulance parking to be media crew with their cameras, microphones, and digital recorders, while the crowd at the morgue is made up of the deceaseds’ families and friends.

Standing by the gate, Mislan searches the crowd at the morgue for Inspector Murad, when he feels a tap on his shoulder. Turning around, it is Rodziah, the crime reporter who likes to be called Audi, like the car.

“Not now,” Mislan tells her sternly.

“Just for a minute, I’m sure you’ll want to hear this,” she says, pulling him away by his arm into the shadow.

“What?”

“The deceased, do you know who they are?”

“Why?”

“Do you know who came here twenty minutes ago?” Audi asks, jerking her head toward the cars in the compound.

“Surprise me.”

“Tan Sri Kudin Kudus, a big-shot powerbroker politician, and some of his cronies. He’s more popularly known as Tan Sri KK or Kabel Kuat—Strong Cable, referring to political connections.” Tan Sri is a title conferred by the king to deserving recipients who have contributed greatly to the nation.

“So?”

“You don’t know who he is, do you?”

“Nope. Should I?”

“I guess in your case, ignorance makes you courageous.” Audi chuckles.

“No. In my case, ignorance allows me to do my job.”

“OK, I know you don’t give a shit about politics, but just for your info, he’s somebody big. So, my dear Inspector, your victims must have been people who’d have made the news. You may want to tread with caution . . . you know, kowtow a little. I’m telling you this because we’re friends. You treated me right the last time, and I respect that.”

“Thanks for the warning. Did you know the victims?”

“I overheard some media guys saying he was high up in the food chain in Selangor state.”

“Meaning?”

“Front man, proxy holder, you know, someone that manages the war chests of those in public office. But that’s only media talk. Half of it is street gossip. Anyway, store that information somewhere in your head.”

“Shit, that’s all Murad needs, political interference. Thanks for the info, Audi.”

“No sweat, you treat me right, I treat you right,” Audi says and waggles away, giving him a wink.

“Why aren’t you with them?” Mislan calls after her, pointing to the media crowd.

“I don’t work with packs, I hunt alone,” Audi says, grinning. “And I got an insider.”

“Who’s your insider?”

“You, Inspector,” Audi says, with a laugh.

Mislan watches Audi weave her way between the black Toyota Vellfire MPVs and black Toyota Harriers, disappearing into the night. He remembers Johan once told him that the political termites can be identified by their vehicles—those driving Vellfires are one rung up the food chain from those driving Harriers. It is an unwritten code for the ruling political party but known to all its members: from Harrier to Vellfire to BMW to Mercedes, and it had to be black.