20
WHEN THEY TURN INTO Jalan Cheras, Mislan notices the time is 6:10 p.m. He asks Johan about his plans for breaking his fast. Johan says he is going to be with his girlfriend because she is leaving town that night.
“Why don’t you join us?”
“No thanks, I don’t want to be the spare tire,” he declines.
“It’s no big deal. Why don’t you invite Dr. Safia? Make it a foursome, that’ll be fun.”
“She’s in Bangi with her mother. You go on ahead. I’ll see you tomorrow. Where’s your girl from?”
“Ezni? She’s from Melaka. Alor Gajah, somewhere,” he says, laughing. “I haven’t found out much about her.”
“Ezni, I thought it was Mahani.”
“Mahani is history, broke up about three months ago. She’s with some white guy now. I hooked up with Ezni about a month ago. She’s moving in after Raya.”
“You lucky man,” Mislan says.
Johan beams.
“When are you settling down?” Mislan asks.
“I’ve not met the right girl, yet. Hey, the female vic’s BFF Ayn, she’s a looker. I don’t mind hooking up with her.”
“Don’t you even think about it. Anyway, what’s wrong with Ezni?”
“She’s OK, but I don’t think she’s the wife type. How about you? It’s been long enough. What? What has it been two . . . three years now?”
“I’m not looking.”
“How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Be on your own. Work long hours and take care of Daniel.”
“Easy. I love my son and I love my job. Most importantly, it’s because I want to. They’re both my responsibilities. It’s difficult, but it’s not impossible.”
Johan remains silent the rest of the way. At the parking lot, Johan again tries to persuade his boss to join them for breaking of fast. Mislan again declines, saying he needs an early night. Going home, Mislan takes the Kampung Pandan road through Pandan Dalam, where he buys a stick of lemang, some ketupat, and a packet of beef rendang-tok from a remaining roadside Ramadan bazaar. Raya is not complete without these three specialty food items, at least so the Malay would say. His thoughts drift to Daniel, who is probably having a good time with his mummy, grandparents, and the maid. His heart sinks at not being part of it all. He is resigned to his son having only one parent with him on any occasion.
He leaves the purchased food on the kitchen table and goes to his bedroom, where he goes through the routine of ejecting the clip from his gun, emptying his weapon, and placing it in the drawer. He showers, changes into his shorts and sleeveless singlet and goes back into the kitchen. His movements are deliberate but lifeless, like a zombie’s. Lemang are sticky or glutinous rice cooked with coconut milk and wrapped in banana leaves in bamboo tubing. They are roasted over open fires. He splits the bamboo open and extracts the glutinous rice, cutting it into small circular pieces before putting them onto a plate. Ketupat can be made from plain rice or sticky rice. The rice is placed into a small bag weaved from young coconut leaves and boiled. He slices the ketupat to go onto another plate. The rendang-tok is beef sliced thinly and cooked with numerous herbs and spices and coconut milk, Northern Malay style. In the case of rendang-tok, it is cooked until it turns dark brown or black. He pours the rendang-tok into a bowl.
He makes a mug of coffee and sits down for his Raya eve dinner by himself. While nibbling on his food, he hears the call for prayer from the neighborhood mosque. The melancholic call stirs a longing for his son, for his BFF. How pathetic his life is, alone on Raya eve missing Daniel, and his case is going nowhere.
Losing his appetite, he clears the table, takes his coffee to the bedroom, and switches on the television. The local stations are full of Raya stories, musicals, and news that only make his depression worse. He needs to switch off his mind. He sits at his desk and takes out the photos of the victims he got from Dr. Bakar, spreading them out on the desk. He lifts Zaleha’s photo and examines the gunshot wounds. He wonders if there is any way of telling which the first shot was—to the head or the chest. He picks up the phone and speed-dials Dr. Safia.
“Hi, you still at your mum’s?”
“Yes, thought of going to work from here. What’s up?”
Mislan wants to ask her about the gunshot wounds but figures it’s not proper, it being Raya eve and all.
“Nothing, just sitting at home watching TV. I thought you’d be back and might like some tea,” he lies.
“Love to, but you know, lah, my entire family’s here. Don’t think they’d understand if I went out.”
“I know . . . bad idea. I’ll catch up with you when you’re back. Hey, Selamat Hari Raya.”
“Sure, catch you when I’m back. Selamat Hari Raya to you, too, and, Lan, wish you were here.”
He smiles and terminates the call.
He calls Daniel, and his ex-wife tells him his son is asleep, tired from shopping and playing. He tells her he’ll call tomorrow and wishes her a happy Raya.
Running out of things to do, Mislan turns on the computer and Googles murder-suicide and postmortem injuries. Just then his phone rings.
“Yes, Audi.”
“No Raya greeting? Oh sorry, you don’t fast so you cannot celebrate,” Audi teases him.
“What do you want? I’m in a rush,” he lies.
A crime reporter is the last person he needs at the moment.
“OK, I spoke to Ayn. What do you want me to do with the info?”
“Up to you. I’m not asking you to do anything with it. You do what you want.”
She chuckles.
“You’re afraid this call is recorded, right? I’m hurt. You still don’t trust me.”
He can hear a smothered giggle. Shit, this woman can read my mind. After a moment, she says, “OK, I’ll hang on to it and when you decide to trust me, we’ll meet and talk. Look, Inspector, I’m a friend who happens to like the police. Not all of us are bad, just the handful who are given more publicity than they deserve. By the way, I’ll be in town during the festive season should you want to get together. Good night.”
“Night.”
After ending the call with Audi, he returns to the Internet search. He reads research on murder-suicides, trying to understand motivations. The articles gave love and jealousy as popular motives, as in: He loves her so much that he couldn’t bear losing her, and after killing her couldn’t face a life without her. “What a load of crap,” Mislan grunts.
He keys in: Cases of committing suicide while driving a car. No result listed.
His cell phone rings. It’s Fadillah from IT Forensics.
“Yes, Di.”
“I mailed you the victim’s cell phone chats, and you can log into her Facebook account. The user name’s Zaleha.J, and the password is D9invest.”
“You hacked her account and changed her password?” Mislan is surprised.
“Yes, now only we can view it,” Di says, laughing.
“Why?”
“So that if anyone wants to deactivate the account, he can’t get in and do it. . . . Diabolical,” Di declares with a louder laugh.
“Who’s going to do that?” Mislan is puzzled.
“I don’t know, but it’s no-can-do now.”
“OK, thanks, I think.”
Mislan calls his assistant and gives him the victim’s Facebook username and password.
“Can you go through and see if there’s anything interesting?” Mislan asks.
“How did you get the username and password?” Johan asks.
“Long story, tell you tomorrow.”
“Why are you not going through it yourself?”
“You know Facebook better than me.”
“Sorry, I forgot you don’t even have an account,” Johan says, chuckling.