9

THE PARKING LOT IN front of the Crime Forensics building is half empty. The festive season does have its advantages: traffic is light, plenty of parking spaces and people are friendlier. The disadvantages: things move at a slower pace, offices are left with skeletal staff and most of the Malay roadside stalls selling authentic and cheap food are closed. The D9 officers walk up two flights and find Chew in the laboratory examining articles or clothing or belongings of some poor dead person.

“Hey, Inspector, didn’t expect you to be here so soon.”

“Traffic’s light. Are those from my case?”

Chew shakes his head.

“Chew, can you get someone to print out these photographs?” Mislan hands him a thumb drive. “They’re photographs of the vics from the forensic pathologist.”

“Sure, we can use my printer.”

“Is it color?”

“The latest HP Laser color printer in the market. Nothing but the best and latest here.”

“I envy you,” Johan says.

“Are you done with the cell phones?” Mislan asks.

“Yes, do you want them?”

“Please. Who’s doing the gun?”

“We are. I’ll be sending it to ballistics once we’re finished here. We only got the exhibit this morning. Lily’s man sent them over. It’ll be a while before we can give you anything.”

“Why ballistics? I’m sure the bullets match. I’m more interested in the gun itself. Did you dust it?”

“Yes, I did. We found the victim’s prints and no one else’s. The bullets in the clip are JHP, and to be sure it came from the recovered gun, we have to do ballistic tests.”

“Jacketed hollow points?”

“Yes, you sound surprised.”

“I thought JHP weren’t available to the public, only for police use,” Mislan says.

“I don’t know if what you said is true, but your victim managed to get hold of them somehow,” Chew replies with a shrug.

“What about GSR?”

“I did the field gunshot residue test at the scene on the victims. The male victim tested positive. But field test is only 90 percent accurate. I’ve sent the swabs for analysis.”

“Did you do it for both hands?”

“Yes, both, and it was only positive for the right hand.”

“Can you do me a favor? Can you test the male vic’s clothing for GSR?”

“Can do. What are you looking for?”

“Can you trace the GSR spread, the pattern?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Like how big is the spread? Which part of the shirt is tainted? Argh, how do I explain it? Something like this.” Mislan uses his finger to draw an imaginary pattern on Johan’s shirt.

“Oh, OK, I got you. You want to know the shot distance. Ballistics can do that for you.”

“Great.”

“Got any leads so far?”

“Nothing yet, I’m still groping in the dark.”

They follow him to his office. Chew opens a steel cabinet and takes out two evidence bags.

“Here,” he says, handing him the cell phones.

He plugs in the thumb drives and look for the medical forensic folder. He clicks on it and sends the photos to the printer, then they sit around Chew’s table reviewing the printouts. Mislan flips through them, not knowing what he’s looking for. The bullet holes look so small, but they were sufficient to kill. Victims on the television and in movies always look better—the handsome still look handsome, and the beautiful still look beautiful. In reality they look pale, ashen and ghostlike, with eyes wide open and eyeballs sucked into the hollows of their skulls.

“Chew, can we look at the vehicle?” Mislan asks.

“Sure.”

They walk to the garage on the ground floor, and Mislan stops at the corridor for a cigarette.

“Are you not fasting?” Chew asks.

“Not today.”

“Have you had lunch? Do you want me to arrange for something to eat?” Turning to Johan, Chew asks, “Sergeant, you fasting?”

“Yes, for now.”

“No thanks,” Mislan declines.

Mislan stubs out his cigarette, throws it into the corridor’s dustbin, and they continue toward the garage. The black Mercedes E200 is in the middle, unattended, shining like a mysterious dark tomb. He walks toward the front and examines the damage to the right headlight and bumper. The damage is minor—a dented casing and an unhinged fender. The victim must have slowed before the crash. What could’ve made him slow down: the act of drawing his gun or the shock of a gun being pointed at him?

“Chew, in your expert unscientific opinion, at what speed did the vehicle hit the railing?”

Chew walks to the front, squats, and examines the damage.

“Ten, maybe fifteen miles per hour.”

“Jo, can you get back to the responding patrolmen and check with them if they examined the road for tire marks? I don’t think they did, but ask them anyway.”

“Sure.”

“Can we look inside? Are your guys done with it?”

“Hang on, let me check.”

Chew walks to the office at the end of the garage and comes back with the supervisor, whom he introduces as Gavin.

“Gavin, have you guys finished with the interior?”

“Yes, we’ve taken the blood samples for comparisons with the victims. There’s nothing much else to do. It’s a straightforward case.”

“Can I see the inside?”

“Sure.”

Gavin opens the driver’s door.

“Can I get in?”

“Yes, we’re all done. Here, put on these gloves, just in case

” Mislan snaps the gloves on and gets into the driver’s seat, examining the interior. There are blood splatters on the dashboard on the passenger’s side and gear console.

“Chew you got the photos of the vics?”

“Yes. Do you want them?”

“Please.”

Chew calls his office.

“Okay, Di will bring them down. What are you looking for?”

“Answers, or in this case . . . questions.” He smiles. “Gavin, is there a place to smoke?”

“My office.”

“Thanks, anyone want to join me for a smoke while waiting for Di?”

They follow him into Gavin’s office.

“I know that look. Something’s bothering him,” Johan says to Chew.

“Something’s always bothering him. It must be tiring working with him. Sometimes I feel as though the dead talk to him.”

“I thought I was the only one,” Johan says with a laugh.

Mislan lights a cigarette, looks around the office, and walks to the coffee maker.

“May I?”

“Yes, please help yourself.”

Fadillah, the computer forensic technician, or Di as she likes to be called, enters the office dressed in a black T-shirt with bright orange prints. The wording on it is covered by her white lab jacket. Mislan suspects it must be something rebelliously interesting.

“Eyeew, you’re not fasting?” she jeers, as she hands Chew the crime scene photos. “What’s your excuse? Period pains?” she chides.

Johan whispers to her to let it slide.

Mislan grabs the photos before Chew can take them from Di. He spreads them on the table. Examining them, he selects three, squashes his cigarette, and walks back to the Mercedes, followed by the rest of them. He yanks the driver’s door open and motions for Fadillah to get into the passenger’s side while he gets into the driver’s seat. Holding up one of the photos, he guides her into the position of the female victim.

“OK, tell me what is wrong here?”

Chew, Johan, Gavin, and Di look at each other, confused.

“Stay the way you are, don’t move,” he says, holding her head back.

“Ouch, that hurts.”

“Sorry. So, what’s wrong with this scene?”

“Her head,” Chew says, hesitantly.

“Good. She was shot on the right temple, so the impact would’ve thrown her head to the left. But in this photo, her head is leaning toward the right. It’s not correct.”

“How about whiplash? It could’ve snapped her head to the right,” Johan says.

“I thought about that, but the murder weapon is a small-caliber handgun . . . Not enough impact for a whiplash. If it were a bigger gun like a .45 or a 9mm, it’s possible.”

Without warning, Mislan pulls out his service Beretta, surprising everyone, especially Fadillah, who scrambles out of the car.

“Relax, will you?” He smiles.

Ejecting the clip, he clears the chamber several times to ensure the gun is empty, closely watched by four pairs of concerned eyes.

“OK, the male vic has a gunshot wound on his right temple, right?”

The four anxious onlookers nod.

“That means he used his right hand to shoot himself,” Mislan says, lifting the Beretta to his right temple. “Bang, I’m dead.”

He lowers his right hand slowly, releasing the Beretta, letting it drop, and it falls to the floorboard. He picks it up again, inserts the clip and holsters his sidearm. Pulling out the photo of the gun, he passes it to Johan.

“What’s wrong with this photo?”

“The gun’s position,” Johan answers.

“But he could have been left-handed,” Fadillah suggests.

“He could be, but if he was, he couldn’t have shot his right temple with the gun in his left hand.”

“You brought the gun down slowly. What if the vic’s hand whipped down violently, threw the gun against the door, and it bounced off to the left?” Johan offers.

“Possible. I don’t want to create any markings on the door that may be mistaken for evidence. That’s why I didn’t release the gun forcefully. Gavin, did you find any marking or indentation on the door to indicate a gun bouncing off it?”

“We didn’t look for that. I’ll get my guys to go over it once more.”

“Interesting. So, are you saying this was not murder-suicide?” Chew asks. “You’re suggesting there was a third person? But Lily said the car was locked from the inside when they arrived.”

“Yes, she did. There are still many questions for which I have no answers.”

“Such as?”

“The locked door, how the vic’s gun was used in the shootings, and most importantly . . . the motive. For the time being, I have enough to hang on to the case for a little longer. Before I forget, Di can you look at the vic’s laptop?”

“What do you want me to look for?”

“See if you can hack the passwords. I don’t know what to look for. Just go sightseeing and look for anything interesting or suspicious. Check her social media account, if any.”

“Okay and, if there is, do you want copies made?”

“Yes, and please do not change, delete, or add anything.”

“Why should I?”

“I’m not saying you would, it’s only a reminder.”

“Tell you what, why don’t I make a copy of everything and give it to you. That way you can go through it yourself at your own pace. I really don’t know what you’d consider interesting or suspicious.”

“OK, when can I have it?”

“Tomorrow latest. I’ll let you know.”

“Great, thanks.”

“What about their cell phones, can you dump all their messages, call logs, WhatsApps, and whatever else?”

“No problem. Where are the phones?”

“Upstairs in Chew’s office. Can I get them tomorrow, too?”

“Sure thing.”

“Thanks.”