28
THREE HOURS LATER, THE three of them are still debating what could have been or might be the truth behind the murder-suicide of Mahadi and Zaleha as they continue to nibble on the lemang, ketupat, and rendang provided by the thoughtful head of Special Investigations. Safia and Johan throw possible scenarios at him, and Mislan shoots them down with evidence. He is on a roll, when his cell phone rings.
“Mislan.”
“Mislan, Ooi from Bentong Police.”
“Oh, hi. Anything?”
“Sorry for the delay in informing you. After we spoke, my detectives went back to the suspect’s house, and the car was gone. The parents said he came back after they left, gathered his things, and drove off. That was when my detectives came back to the office to prepare the information you require, which I emailed to you earlier.”
“Shit,” Mislan swears.
“Sorry.”
“It’s OK, not your fault.”
“Why? What’s happened?” Johan asks when the inspector has terminated the call.
Mislan tells him, then, “Call Operation Center, ask them to send a be-on-look-out flash to all MPVs. Let’s keep it local until we get more intel on him. Jo, if spotted, no one makes a move on him until I’m contacted.”
Mislan logs on his email and print out Inspector Ooi’s email, handing it to his assistant.
“Got you,” Johan says and walks back to his desk.
“Where do you sleep? Is there a room where you sleep?” Dr. Safia asks looking around.
She asks not because she want to know but to temper the frustration emerging from the investigator, to take his mind off the slipup by the Bentong detectives.
“We’re not supposed to sleep, and if we’re tired, we take catnaps at our desks. Why?”
“Just curious,” she answers, smiling.
“It’s late, do you want to leave?”
Dr. Safia knows the inspector is boiling inside and wants to get rid of her so he can blow up, feed his frustrations.
“No, not unless you want me to.”
He smiles at her, shaking his head.
Johan returns and starts chatting with Dr. Safia about Raya celebrations, a trip down memory lane. They smile as their eyes sparkle with fond recollections. They must have had wonderful childhoods, Mislan thinks. He listens enviously. His mind drifts to his son, and he wonders what sort of memories Daniel will have. He feels Dr. Safia touching his arm.
“Hey, you OK?”
“Yeah, fine.”
“You seem distant.”
He gives her an awkward smile.
“I was enjoying your stories,” he says, and changes the subject before she can respond. “I feel like a teh tarik. Jo, you know where we can get some with all the stalls closed?”
Tee tarik is tea with milk prepared the local way, by pouring and “pulling” the brew repeatedly from one container to another.
“I’ve no idea. Let me ask Syed or Jeff. They might know.”
“Why don’t we go to one of the hotels? I know the coffeehouses have it,” Dr. Safia proposes.
“I don’t like hotel teh tarik, too classy,” he says. “They’ll charge you ten times more, plus ten plus five, not including the eight-ringgit parking fee.”
“Cheapskate,” she teases him. “It’s Raya. OK, I’ll buy.”
Johan comes back and tells them a mamak stall behind Istana Hotel is open. They drive in two cars, with Mislan getting a ride from Dr. Safia while Johan drives the investigating officer’s standby vehicle. The stall is crowded. Johan asks for a table and they place their orders. While waiting, Johan gets a call.
“Boss, an MPV has spotted the suspect’s car.”
“Where?” he asks already on his feet.
“Setapak . . . in front of Maybank. The MPV drove past but did not see anyone in or near it. They believe the suspect is in one of the Chinese restaurants and they’re monitoring the car, waiting for instructions.”
“Tell the MPV to keep out of sight and not to make any moves. Let’s go. Fie, sorry, can you take care of the drinks? I’ll catch up with you later.”
“No problem, I’ll take care of it, go on.”
As the inspector and detective sergeant turn to leave, she calls after them.
“Hey, be careful, OK?”
Having been with an MPV Unit before, Johan takes the wheel as he knows the city roads better than his boss. He is also trained in offensive and defensive driving techniques. He heads for Setapak, taking the quickest route he knows. Mislan calls Sentul Police, asking for the call sign of the mobile patrol vehicle that spotted his suspect’s vehicle. Turning his radio to the Sentul radio channel, he contacts the MPV.
Sentul 2-4, this is Sierra India Inspector Mislan, over.
Go ahead Sierra India.
Echo-Tango-Alpha in 2-0.
Roger that, over.
Traffic is very light due to the festive holiday, and they are making good time. On Jalan Pahang, Johan turns left to Jalan Gombak, driving fast but not recklessly. Mislan marvels at Johan’s skill and concentration—his eyes narrowed, forehead wrinkled, and the veins on his neck bulging. The radio crackles.
Sierra India, suspect and a woman are walking toward the car.
Confirm, suspect and one woman?
Affirmative.
“Shit, the suspect’s with a woman,” Mislan tells his assistant.
Roger that, Echo-Tango-Alpha in 0-5, I repeat Echo-Tango-Alpha in 0-5.
Mislan turns to look at his assistant and gets a firm nod from the detective sergeant. Mislan feels the surge of adrenaline as the engine suddenly vibrates under his feet. Johan guns down Jalan Setapak, heading to the traffic light, and makes a hair-raising U-turn. After about four hundred yards, Johan slows down.
“Over there, that’s the Maybank.”
Sierra India the suspect is driving off, coming toward us. Do you want us to intercept?
Sentul 2-4, intercept, intercept. I repeat, intercept. Exercise caution, the suspect may be armed and dangerous.
Roger that.
“Cut in here,” Mislan tells his assistant. “We’ll box him in. . . . Sentul 24 is at the other end.”
Johan cuts into the road in front of the rows of shops, aware of the cars and motorbikes parked along the narrow road. Mislan sees the red taillights of a car about two hundred yards ahead, but it’s too far to make out its registration number or the model.
“There, can you make out the number,” he asks Johan, motioning the car ahead.
Johan shakes his head.
Then the suspect’s car brakes hard with tires screeching, making a bootleg 180-degrees turn. In doing so, it clips the row of motorbikes parked by the side of the narrow road. The D9 radio blares.
Sierra India, the suspect saw us and is making a run for it. I repeat, the suspect’s making a run. Heading your way.
Johan, alerted by the radio transmission, reacts and barrels the car forward, missing a row of parked motorcycles by inches.
“Slow down,” Mislan says, “he’s boxed in.”
The suspect’s car does a tight 90-degree drift spin, clipping a parked motorbike and sending it tumbling into the drain. It stops at a back lane T-junction behind the rows of shops. The driver revs its engine twice and barrels down the alley, leaving a smell of burning rubber. A few seconds later, they hear the sound of screeching tires again, followed by the roar of the engine.
“Shit, this guy is good, probably had some training,” Johan says.
Not to be outdone, he turns right sharply into the alley with the rear of his car skidding. Fifty yards on, Johan jams hard on the brakes at a T-junction. They look frantically to the right and left.
“There, left, left,” Mislan shouts.
Johan pulls the hand brake, jerks the steering wheel left, revving the engine hard, burning rubber as the car skids hard left. He releases the hand brake, and the car lunges forward. Mislan holds on tightly to the dashboard with one hand while shouting into the radio.
Sentul 2-4, suspect heading your way through the back lane.
Roger, we see him.
They come to the end of the back lane just as Sentul 24 shoots past, siren blaring, its red and blue beacons lighting up the night, behind the suspect. Johan steps on the accelerator and joins in the chase. The suspect speeds along Jalan Setapak, sidewinding a cruising vehicle, drift skids onto Jalan Gombak, taking down a road sign, doing 90 miles an hour, putting distance between him and the MPV.
“Shit. Did you see that?” Mislan exclaims.
“Hell, this guy is dangerous. He’s going too fast and is losing control. We’ve got to stop him before someone gets hurt. Tell Sentul 24 to drop back and call for backup.” Johan says.
Sentul 2-4 pull out, pull out, let us pass and call for backup to cut the suspect off.
Roger.
The MPV moves to the side to open a small passage for Johan to bullet through.
Sentul 2-4, have you called for backup?
Affirmative, Selangor 2-1-1 and 2-2-3 are responding.
“This damn car is old and underpowered,” Johan grumbles.
He turns off the air-conditioning for more power and stands on the gas pedal. They start to close the gap on the suspect’s car. Mislan waves through the window, signaling the suspect to pull over. The suspect presses harder on the accelerator to put even more distance between them. The high-speed chase approaches a roundabout, and the suspect must have missed the sign, almost going through it. Somehow, he manages to swerve in the very last second and screeches on two tires onto Jalan Batu Caves.
“Whoa, that was close,” Mislan says.
Then, for no noticeable reason, the suspect’s car slows and comes to a stop. “What the fu—!” Mislan exclaims.
Pointing to the approaching red and blue lights, Johan says, “He’s boxed in.”
Johan brings the car to a skidding halt about thirty yards behind the suspect’s car. Mislan instantly jumps out with his service Beretta cocked and drawn, pointing at the suspect’s car. Standing behind his opened door, he shouts.
“Step out of the vehicle with your hands up.”
He strains his eyes to see any movement inside the suspect’s car. The night is still, except for the blaring siren of the approaching Sentul 24 and the humming of their car engines. An MPV with a red-and-blue swirling beacon approaching from the opposite stops about fifty yards in front of the suspect’s car. Sentul 24 finally arrives behind them. Mislan signals it to cut off the siren and shouts again.
“Occupants of the car, please get out with your hands raised.”
The passenger door opens and a pair of shiny stilettos attached to a pair of slim legs protrudes. A woman slowly emerges from the open door and turns to face them, shielding her face like a drunk hit by a bright light.
Mislan shouts, “Lady, step away from the car. Driver of the car, please turn off your engine and step out.”
The woman looks toward them, not making a move.
Mislan repeats, “Please step away from the car.”
She bends into the car’s cabin, reemerges, slams the door, and backs away to the curb. In her haste, she almost trips over as her stilettos dig into the soft ground. Recovering, she screams obscenities at the officers and steps farther away from the car.
“Driver of the car, turn off your engine and step out of the vehicle with your hands up,” Mislan repeats.
“He’s going to make a run. Get in! Get in!” Johan yells.
Just as Johan shouts the warning to his boss, the night is shattered with the deafening roar of a revving engine.
“Get in!” Johan yells again, over the roar.
Mislan jumps into the car and, before he can close the door, Johan guns the car straight for the suspect’s. The suspect’s car lurches and speeds off just before Johan can ram and immobilize it.
“Damn!” Johan swears.
The suspect’s car speeds toward the MPV blocking the road and rams its rear end, spinning the MPV and creating an opening. The patrolmen open fire as the suspect’s car veers to the right and zooms past, its dangling front fender throwing sparks like fireworks as it drags on the pavement. Johan speeds through the opening, trying desperately to close the gap between them. A bullet hits their car as they zoom into the line of fire and Mislan crouches for cover, shouting into the radio, “Stop shooting, stop the bloody shooting.”
Johan glances at his rearview mirror and sees Sentul 24 frantically signaling and shouting to Selangor 211’s crew to stop. When the shooting stops, Mislan shouts into the radio, “Sentul 2-4, pick the woman up and check on the Mike-Papa-Victor crew.
Roger.
The suspect makes a sharp left to Jalan Ipoh, heads north for about six miles, and turns right into Selayang Baru at the breakneck speed of 80 to 90 mile per hour. Unfortunately, he loses control of the car, overshoots the sharp bend, and dives into a monsoon drain, kissing the concrete wall at full speed. Johan slams on his brakes, causing the car’s rear to slide sideways. Mislan is already out before the car stops. Gun drawn, he rushes toward the suspect’s car. The hood is jackknifed, with the engine block pushed into the dashboard. The suspect is pinned between the steering wheel and his seat, his head on the twisted steering wheel, blood oozing from his mouth and ears. His eyes are closed, like he is shutting out the scene of the final impact. Mislan jumps into the waterless monsoon drain, yanks open the door, and feels for suspect’s pulse. After a few attempts, he steps back, leans against the wall, and swears, “Damn, damn!”
Johan steps forward and looks at the motionless body of Mahyudin Maidin aka Mamak Din, saying, “I guess he made up his mind . . . Freedom or death, and death prevailed.”
Sentul 24 approaches the scene and calls it in. Corporal Lingam tells them that the MPV crew is fine, as they managed to get out of the way before the suspect rammed their vehicle. He also informs them that the scene is under Selangor police jurisdiction and Operations Center has informed the district.