6

MISLAN WATCHES AS THE doctor and his assistant remove the personal belongings and clothing of the male victim, bagging and tagging them. The black plastic body bag is replaced with the white hospital sheets, giving the cadaver a little more respectability. He watches as a CT scanner is rolled next to the cadaver, the assistant operating the machine while Dr. Matthews views the monitor. As he expected, the bullet is lodged within the cranium.

The scanner is wheeled away from the autopsy table and the external examination begins. As he examines, the forensic pathologist speaks into a hanging microphone and writes notes on a clipboard. His assistant snaps a photo every time the forensic pathologist dictates an observation or when told to do so. Swabs of the entry wound and the hair around it, the back of both hands, and between the thumb and index finger are taken for gunshot residue analysis. The examination is methodical, with the tiniest foreign item found on the body collected for analysis. The care and respect the pathologist displays in handling the cadaver fascinate Mislan. The silent respect, the courtesy of telling the cadaver what he is about to do and why, blows him away. If only the living were treated with the same respect.

After the initial external examination, the cadaver undergoes a thorough washing. Another external examination starts with more speaking into the overhead microphone and photographs.

“Doc, is it possible to establish the bullet’s entry trajectory?” Mislan asks.

“I can.”

The doctor walks to the cabinets lining the wall and returns with what looks like a chopstick. He slowly inserts it into the wound. The chopstick-like instrument protrudes from the wound at a fifty-five-degree upward angle. The assistant takes a snapshot of this.

“What are you looking for? Perhaps, I can focus on that?”

“I don’t know, Doc, I’m still fishing. Would you say the angle is right for a self-inflicted shot?”

“There is no forensic literature on the ‘right’ angle for a self-inflicted wound. But in my experience, which is not much, fifty-five degrees upward is within an acceptable range. Usually, the ones that I’ve seen are between a forty- and ninety-degree upward angle. More than ninety degrees would be a downward angle and questionable.”

“Why is that?”

“It’s hard to imagine a person shooting himself downward,” Dr. Matthews says with a smile.

“Yeah, downward shot is more like execution style.”

Dr. Matthew looks at the officer, puzzled.

“Can I step out for a smoke?”

“I could use one, too, but I’ve got my hands full right now.”

“Is there a back door? I don’t want to attract any attention,” Mislan says, referring to the crowd outside.

“Through there,” Dr. Matthews says, pointing.

Mislan cracks the side door open and peeks out at the dark narrow path between the buildings. It is almost 2:20 a.m., and he can still hear the crowd from the other side of the building. It sounds like the crowd has grown larger and more restless. It must be the fasting month, he figures. Malays normally stay awake until Sahur between 5 to 6 in the morning, which will be the last meal before fasting for the day. He makes a call to his assistant and asks him and Murad to meet him at the back of the morgue. Waiting for them, he lights a cigarette.

“So, Inspector, was I right?”

“Shit Audi, you gave me a fright. Where did you come from?”

“Over there,” she says, pointing to a passage leading to the main building. “I know this place well, every passage and every staircase. So, was I right?”

“I don’t know, could be.”

“You can’t smoke here, this is a hospital,” she admonishes him.

He gives her a does-it-look-like-I-give-a-shit look.

She smiles. “Can I have a cig?”

“I didn’t know you smoked,” he says, handing her the pack.

“Trying to quit. Has the autopsy started?”

He nods.

“Who’s the forensic pathologist?”

“Dr. Matthews.”

“What are the dead saying?”

“Nothing yet, it has just started.”

“Don’t bullshit me. You wouldn’t be out here if it had just started. You would be watching it like a starving lion. Come on, you can trust me.”

“I’m not bullshitting you. It’s the truth, it’s just started. Look Audi, I have nothing yet. At this stage, you probably know more than me. I need to speak to my guys. Can you give us some space?”

“Don’t worry about me, pretend I’m not here,” she says, grinning.

He gives her a get-lost stare. She smiles, stubs out her cigarette, and walks toward the waiting crowd, saying, “I’ll call you later.”

Once Audi is out of range, he asks, “Anything interesting?”

“As you said, the male victim is a top crony in Selangor, heads several companies involved in mainly government projects. Some say the victims were married, others say they’re lovers, but one thing’s sure, they all say she was managing one of the companies,” Murad says.

“Mahadi was married with four children, three male and one female. The eldest, Hashim, is a managing director in one of the vic’s subsidiaries; the second, Latiff, is an accountant with a multinational; the third, Mokthar, is a businessman, but we’re not too sure what kind of business. The youngest, Laila, has no known occupation. The wife, Rahimah, is a housewife,” Johan briefs him. “I don’t think we can get anything of substance here.”

The inspector looks at Johan.

“Most here are party members simply exchanging gossip. The family’s keeping mum. KK and the YB are hovering over them like mother crocodiles.”

“The whole family’s here?”

“Only the boys. The wife and daughter are not.”

“Jo, call in a couple of detectives to mingle with the crowd, to pick up on the gossip. They might find something to follow up later.”

“OK, will do.”

“Murad, you want to split?”

“I should. I left two complainants at the station. I hope they’re still there.”

“I’m going to check on the autopsy. Let me know when the detectives arrive, then we can leave.” Mislan walks toward the door. “Jo, did you see the female vic’s family around?”

“No, just the male vic’s.”

“Just as I thought.”

Mislan reenters to the autopsy room just as Dr. Matthews is opening the deceased’s chest. The sudden change in the temperature from the hot and humid air outside to the cold morgue interior makes him shiver. The forensic pathologist notices the inspector shiver, thinking it was because of the open-chest cadaver, and he smiles.

“Not a pretty sight, eh?”

“Never is, Doc. Are you doing both tonight?”

“I don’t think so. I’ll finish with him and get the next shift to do her.”

“Who’s on next?”

“Dr. Bakar Sulaiman.”

“Doc, how long can you hang on to the deceased, before releasing them?”

“As long as we need to complete whatever we have to do. Why?”

“I need you to hang on to the bodies for a while until I talk with our Forensics people. Shouldn’t be too long. Think you can do that?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Great. Doc. Is it OK if I bring Dr. Safia from HUKM to have a look at the bodies?”

“Any particular reason?”

“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way. I’ve got a bad feeling that this case . . . how shall I put it?”

“Front-page news.”

“I was about to say something else, but front-page news sounds more respectful.”

“It’s unusual for an outside forensic pathologist to review our case unless challenged in court or requested by the family. I guess, if it helps in your investigation . . . I have no problem with it. I don’t know about Dr. Bakar. I suggest you talk to him or you can put in a formal request through the hospital administration.”

“I just think a fresh pair of eyes might help me understand. I don’t comprehend medical jargon. It’s more for me to understand, nothing official.”

“Like I said, I’m OK with it, but you have to check with Dr. Bakar for the other deceased. Call me when you bring Dr. Safia, so I can be around.”

“Sure, thank you. I’ve got to run now, and thank you again, Doc.”