55

THEY WALK BRISKLY TO the car, looking over their shoulders more than once, expecting the professor or the clerk to come chasing after them. Once in the car, Johan starts the engine, puts the car into gear, and drives out of the hospital compound. Only when they hit the street do they breathe easy. They look at each other and laugh.

“That was smooth. You think the professor’ll find out?” Johan asks.

“Does it matter?”

“He can file a complaint.”

“About whom?”

“Us . . . tricking the clerk into giving us the records.”

“I doubt it. It’ll only highlight his department’s vulnerability.” Mislan reviews the report and sighs. “I can’t understand a damn thing. I can’t even pronounce some of the words. Like this one, neo, ad, ju, vant therapy. What the hell’s that?”

He speed-dials Dr. Safia, asks if she wants to have dinner, and tells Johan to drive to Dr. Safia’s place.

Johan laughs. “They need those big words to justify the fee they’re charging. Are you going to ask Dr. Safia to look at it?”

Mislan nods.

“She’s a ‘stiff’ doctor, will she understand it?”

“She’s a doctor, isn’t she?”

In the car, Dr. Safia says she feels like having mutton curry, and Johan declares he knows just the place. They drive through Loke Yew to Jalan Cheras, past the Kuala Lumpur Badminton Stadium, toward the old Cheras police station. He turns into Jalan Peel, and about a hundred yards up the street, he pulls up in front of a restaurant that says Cheras Fish Head Curry.

Johan clarifies, “Don’t be misled by the name, this place sells the best mutton curry in town.”

They take their seats, and since Johan knows the restaurant, he orders the food. The restaurant begins to fill up, and they notice that many of its customers are Chinese, all ordering mutton curry.

“I didn’t know the Chinese liked mutton,” Dr. Safia says.

“Not all mutton, only the one here,” Johan says. “Go ahead, try it and save your comments until after.”

They dig in. After a couple of mouthfuls, Safia says, “This is really good. The gravy’s thick, and the mutton is sooo tender.”

Johan grins with delight.

“How do you know of this place?”

“My MPV buddies from Cheras police took me here once, and since then I’ve been coming here if I feel like mutton curry.”

Mislan’s cell phone rings.

“Yes, Audi?”

“Thought we’re meeting up?”

“Sorry, no can do, I’m a little busy now. How did the press conference go?”

“The OCCI announced he had solved the DUKE murders, and a suspect has confessed. He did not reveal the name. The admission will be forwarded to the Public Prosecutor’s office for further action. In the meantime, the suspect is under police bail. As the suspect surrendered under her own accord, the OCCI feels there’s no threat of her absconding. Did you hear me say ‘her’?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And you did not stop or ask me. So you knew, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And you didn’t let me in on it? I thought we had a deal,” Audi says angrily. “You allowed me to waste my time sitting in a press conference for that horseshit.”

“Look, I know we have a deal, but I don’t want it to be obvious. Go with the crowd, and when the time is right, you’ll get the edge you want. Trust me. As a crime reporter, you should have figured it out.”

“Figured what out?”

“You got the inside on Hashim’s arrest, so when the OCCI called for a press conference, the fact that I don’t give a damn about it should have flashed you a signal.”

“What signal?”

“That we’re walking two different paths. Look, I’ve really got to go now. I’ll let you know once I have something newsworthy.”

They finish their dinner and decide to go somewhere else, because the restaurant is getting busy and noisy. Mislan pays the bill, and Dr. Safia suggests that they go to the mamak stall near her place. That way they won’t have to make another trip to send her back.

At the stall, they pick a table farthest away from the crowd and order their drinks.

“So, what do I owe you for the best mutton curry dinner in town?” Safia jokes.

“Nothing, but since you asked, do you mind looking at this report and explaining its contents in English?”

Mislan pushes Rahimah’s medical report toward her. He lights a cigarette and hands it to her, lighting another for himself.

“I knew there was something. Let’s see.”

She reviews the report and asks, “Who is Rahimah?”

“The vic’s wife.”

“The report says she has colorectal cancer, advanced stage, and is undergoing neoadjuvant therapy.”

“What’s that?”

“Radiation therapy.”

“When you said advanced stage, what does that mean?”

“Cancer’s referred to by its stage, which determines the treatment needed. In her case, she is T3, N3, and M2, which means the cancer has spread to other adjacent organs.”

“What’s the highest stage?”

“Four.”

“So, she’s close to the top. She’s dying.”

“Well, you might say she is terminally ill. Doctors can only give professional opinions or a guesstimate of when death will occur by the patient’s response to treatment and the rate of deterioration. We’re not always right. New medicine and technologies can radically alter a patient’s survival chances.”

“Let’s say, if everything else is constant or if she doesn’t get any treatment, how long would she live?”

“It all depends on how many lymph nodes have metastasized and spread to other organs. This report’s only the covering page, where are the treatment records?”

“I don’t have them.”

“Then, I can’t give you an opinion.”

“But she’s terminally ill, and chances are that she doesn’t have long to live. That makes sense.”

“What makes sense?”

“The admission.”

“You mean, she admitted to the DUKE murders?”

“Yes, earlier this afternoon.”

“Wow.”