14

STARTING THE CAR, HE notices it is almost midnight. He curses himself for not calling Daniel to wish him goodnight. His son is probably asleep by now. Or perhaps he isn’t, hyped by the excitement of meeting his grandparents. Pulling out of the Kuala Lumpur Contingent Police HQ, he decides to call anyway, and after a few rings he hears his son’s wide-awake voice.

“Daddy, Grandma bought me KFC.”

“Hey, kiddo, lucky you. Why are you still awake?”

“I’m helping Grandma make cookies.”

“OK but don’t stay up too late.”

“OK, Daddy, bye.”

“Bye, kiddo, Daddy misses you. Love you.”

“Hum-hum.”

“Miss you, kiddo, miss you, too, Daddy,” Mislan does the monologue, chortling, whenever his son goes into his “hum-hum” mode, because he thinks he is too old for such kiddy endearments.

Smiling, he hangs up, happy that he managed to speak to his son.

As he hits the MRR2, Mislan suddenly feels the urge to drive to the crime scene. He makes a left up the ramp to DUKE. The expressway is fairly busy, but vehicles are driving within the speed limit of 60 mph. He keeps to the left, the slow lane and at the eleventh milestone he puts on the hazard lights. He parks in the emergency lane, lowers the window, and kills the engine. The cold night air stirred by passing vehicles is refreshing. Lighting a cigarette, he watches vehicles zoom past and wonders if the drivers or passengers within realize they just passed a site where two individuals’ lives were cruelly terminated. He supposes not—their minds are most likely preoccupied with other thoughts, on the Raya celebration.

Why this spot? What’s significant about it? He surveys the surroundings for clues but sees none. Farther up the expressway on both sides are high-rise buildings—condominiums or apartments. Apart from roadside lamps and billboards there is nothing that stands out or catches his attention. He focuses on the road divider safety rails: not even a dent and no debris to indicate there was an accident.

If one wants to commit murder or suicide, why not do it in a hotel, house, or office, or jump off a bridge like many other people? Why in a moving car? Why not stop the car first? One could lose control of the vehicle. He flicks his cigarette out and sighs. It just did not make sense. The ringing of his phone startles him.

“Hi,” he hears Dr. Safia say.

“Hi, where are you?”

“Bangi, at my mum’s. What are you doing?”

“Nothing, just sitting around doing nothing.”

“At home?”

“Nope, sitting in my car by the roadside,” he says, then realizes how pathetic that must have sounded to her.

“Are you on a stakeout?”

“No.”

“Oooh, OK, let me guess. You’re in front of the morgue, planning a break-in to steal the reports,” she laughs.

“Good guess, but wrong. That’s not such a bad idea, though,” he says, chuckling.

“Don’t you dare.”

“I’m only joking.”

“Okay, I give up. Where are you?”

“At the homicide crime scene,” he answers.

“Lan, you need to get help. I mean from professionals, not spirits of the dead.” She laughs. “By the way, are the spirits telling you anything?”

“Sorry, I promised the spirits I wouldn’t tell anyone, especially forensic pathologists. Wait, they’re telling me something, hum-hum, hum-hum, OK, I’ll tell her. Fie, the spirits say that if you want to know, you have to come here.”

“Yeah, right. Tell them I’ll take a raincheck. Hey, are you working during Raya?”

“Yes, why?”

“Me too.”

“Really, I thought that you’re on leave.”

“Two days, yesterday and today.”

“So, Raya’s on Friday?”

“Yes, didn’t you hear the announcement?”

“No, I was out of the office.”

“Lan, got to go. Mum’s calling. Tell the spirits to take it easy. Night, Lan.”

“Night.”

His house is dark. The maid would normally leave the living room lights on at night if he wasn’t home yet. He switches on the lights, makes a mug of coffee, and goes into his bedroom. He leaves his backpack on the floor, ejects the clip from his service Beretta, puts everything into his bedside drawer, and switches on the television. He freshens up, changes into his sleeping shorts, and lies on the bed, missing his son.

He turns on the television, and it’s showing aerial shots of the rivers of vehicles leaving the city for the festive holiday. The host says that the death toll on the highways has passed the one hundred mark. Visuals of several accident sites, mangled vehicles, black plastic body bags by the roadside, and mourning families follow the statistic. This is followed by interviews with traffic police officers, road transport personnel, and others. Every year it’s the same.

He switches channels and stops on the morning news. It is showing a rerun of the homicide press conference by the Officer in Charge of Criminal Investigations. The only addition to the report is that the police have confirmed there was no third person involved. The police are confident they’ll close the case soon, with appeals to the public to be sensitive to the victims’ families and not to speculate.

He switches off the television and lights, turns on the air conditioner, pulls up the blanket, and tries to sleep. The absence of Daniel, the latest press report, and his visit to the scene stir actively in his head. Sleep doesn’t come. He rolls off the bed, switches on the light, lights a cigarette, and sits at his desk. He reaches for his backpack and pulls out the photographs of the deceased, sorting them into two piles, one from the morgue and the other from the crime scene.

The female victim, Zaleha Jelani, was dressed in dark blue slacks, a light blue-and-white-striped blouse, and black pumps. She wasn’t beautiful but pleasantly sweet, light skinned, with a short corporate haircut, maybe five foot two or three, and slim. She wore little makeup and few accessories, a gold chain, ear studs, and a sports watch. She had no rings on her fingers. From her dress and the way her best friend described her, Zaleha was probably a simple, easygoing person, Mislan figures.

Mahadi was wearing a cream-colored sports shirt, dark khaki pants, and brown suede shoes, a sports watch, a wedding band, and a magnetic bracelet, the kind used by golfers. Mislan’s attention is drawn to the dashboard. All the indicator lights were on, the brake, ABS, battery indicator, and others. He examines the photograph closely, but it is too small for him to read the meters. He looks at his digital table clock. It is 12:40 a.m., too late to call Chew. He sets the alarm on his cell phone to remind him to call the Crime Forensics supervisor first thing in the morning. He switches off the lights and has another attempt at sleep.