8

It wasn’t easy for Detective Hanash to navigate his way through the crowd back to car. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was noon. He was thinking about his daughter in Marrakesh in an effort to focus on the bright side of his new reality. He was elated that she was now a mother. Thinking about Atiqa made him think about his other daughter, Manar. When would she get married and have children? He had been giving a lot of thought to her situation in the past few months. And her situation was complicated by an ill-fated relationship with an irresponsible young man that had resulted in a broken engagement. This had not only tarnished her reputation; since then, she’d had no more marriage proposals.

Hanash sped out into the middle of the street, driving recklessly through the traffic. He tried to collect his thoughts and focus on the task at hand. After all, he was lead on this double murder. His competence and reputation as the head detective of Casablanca’s criminal investigations unit were unquestioned, and he had a good success rate in solving cases. He knew that his excellent results were directly related to the years he had spent waging war against—and with—the drug lords in Tangier. He had climbed the ladder, occupying every rank in the force, until he took the lead on the Grand Campaign. This invaluable experience had taught him that all successful police work depended on three basic factors: a loyal second in command; a well-coordinated team; and an informant on the team whose job it was to report on what was going on behind the scenes with the investigative team.

He parked his car in his reserved spot at the central precinct. Even before he reached the main entrance, officers were preparing to salute, but he didn’t look their way. He was thinking about Qazdabo, the missing piece to his template for a successful investigation. Qazdabo had always been the informant who eavesdropped on the other members of the team and reported back. He was the only one Hanash trusted to report on prospective leads or other secrets among them, because he was uniquely capable of casually extracting this information before it went public. His presence was even more crucial in this investigation, as Hanash needed to know about any chatter that might implicate him and his previous interaction with one of the victims. Qazdabo was the only one who could insulate him from a potential catastrophe.

Detective Hanash’s spacious carpeted office was furnished with luxurious leather sofas and the walls were encased in wooden paneling. There was a massive bookcase stretching the length of one wall, holding a collection of beautiful books that gave the impression of being in a lawyer’s office. Hanash had utilized his wide web of connections to furnish his office. It stood out in comparison to the others, which were unkempt and shoddily furnished. The other offices’ walls were plastered with mug shots and other photos of dangerous criminals. They usually didn’t even have a spare chair for a visitor to sit on.

Before sitting on his leather swivel chair, the detective carefully hung his jacket on the coat hanger and loosened his necktie a bit. He then leaned as far back as possible in the chair. He picked up the telephone and dialed his wife. She told him all the details of Atiqa’s delivery, as relayed to her by their daughter. He then filled her in on his purported trip to Fez. He told her about receiving a call from the head of security himself, and how he had been totally absorbed in this horrible double murder since then. As had become customary in these situations, he then asked Naeema to guess what he bought her in Fez. But this time was different; she didn’t entertain him and play her role in this worn-out game. Instead, she told him to save the gift for their daughter, and insisted that he call Atiqa to congratulate her immediately. She also prohibited him from expressing an opinion on the baby’s sex, or asking about who had misread the ultrasound.

After he hung up, Hanash took a deep breath and removed from his desk a case file that was nearly finished. He yawned and stretched his limbs, readying himself to dive into the paperwork that had already come in about this case. Despite the gruesome nature of these murders, his preliminary observations didn’t seem to reveal anything outside the usual circumstances in a murder case like this: there was alcohol, there was sex, and then there was murder. What was unique for him, as the image of the victims kept flashing through his mind, was the fact that he had met the female victim.

A sudden knock at the door interrupted his train of thought. He opened the door to find Hamid, carrying a bunch of files. Hanash asked him to sit down, and Hamid began detailing what they had discovered.

“The girl is Nezha al-Gharbi, a lady of the night, a prostitute. She has a few prior arrests.”

“Has she ever been imprisoned?” asked Detective Hanash.

“No. The morality police arrested her once, but the prosecutor had the charges dropped.”

“You have her address, right?”

“Area thirty-three, in Saada, the neighborhood known as Kandahar.”

“Go there yourself,” said Hanash. “Try to get a sense of the area and then bring in her mother, father, or any family members. And the other victim?”

“His full name is Said bin Ali. He was unmarried and worked at a factory that manufactures electrical cables in Ain Seba.”

“There’s only one factory for electrical cables and it’s owned by a German company called C.E.B. What about his family?”

“We don’t know anything yet about them except that they live in Madinat al-Qala. We’re working with the police there, and they will inform the family. The male victim has no priors, and all of his neighbors report that he had an excellent reputation and seemed completely harmless. His landlord said that no one had ever complained about him.”

“The girl who was murdered,” Detective Hanash interrupted. “Was she his girlfriend? Had anyone in the neighborhood ever met her?”

“We described her to everyone we questioned but no one knew her.”

“Why didn’t you show them her picture from the digital camera?” Hanash interjected. “Her face was untouched. What’s the point of this equipment if we aren’t going to use it to speed things up?”

Hamid nodded and remained silent.

“Where is this neighbor who found the crime scene?” Hanash went on.

“He’s still with Bu’u, who is taking a statement from him in an interrogation room.”

Hanash got up and walked over to the window, gazing out at the busy street. It wasn’t his style to show any sort of appreciation toward his men until the case was closed. In the early stages, he was always gruff and unsatisfied, and he’d never say what he was really thinking. With this case, it was even more important to hold his cards close, lest someone discover his connection to Nezha. His career, reputation, and future depended on this staying hidden. When it came to murder cases, absolutely no one would be spared.

Hamid looked at his papers, noticeably distressed that he didn’t have more to report.

Hanash sat back in his chair. “Let’s start with the families of the victims,” he said, in a businesslike tone.

This statement marked the end of the meeting. Hamid stood up, gathered his files, and left the office.

After Hamid had left, Qazdabo appeared at the office door. His face was greenish and he wore a jalabiya, as if he were in the comfort of his own home.

“You plan on meeting with the detective looking like that?” said a security guard outside the office, as he looked him up and down, smiling.

“I’m ill,” said Qazdabo, teeth chattering.

The guard couldn’t hide his astonishment as he informed Hanash of who was there to see him.

Hanash paced around his office quietly, looking at Qazdabo in his outfit. He looked like a clown wearing pajamas.

“Are you out of your mind? Have you forgotten that you are a police officer in one of the country’s largest departments? I have no idea why they transferred you here. They should have sent you to some desert outpost.”

“Reprimand me however you please,” said Qazdabo pitifully, “but I’m sick. I’m close to collapsing.”

He wobbled as if he were suffering from dizzying nausea. Hanash gave him a chair and looked at him dubiously.

“I have a medical statement from my doctor prescribing three days’ rest, and I’d like to spend the time with my family.”

“At a time like this? When we need all the help we can get?”

Qazdabo trembled as he struggled to lift his head to even look at him. His pathetic state invoked amazement more than pity, and Hanash relented, recognizing how much his top informant was suffering.

“Fine. Leave the statement on the desk,” he said, hoping to end this meeting quickly. “Go home, but when you return you’d better be ready to work.”

Qazdabo lowered his head submissively and skittered out the door like a mouse returning to his hole.

After Qazdabo left, Hanash had a hard time putting his finger on what was frustrating him about this interaction. Even beyond his strange behavior and his alleged illness, Qazdabo seemed out of sorts. Could he have been aware of what went down at Hotel Scheherazade?

Directly facing Hanash’s office was the office that Hamid shared with an officer nicknamed Baba. It was a small office that contained two workstations and an old-school typewriter from the previous century. There weren’t any additional chairs for visitors. The walls were speckled with scribbles of black pen, and one of the curtain-less windows was partially shattered and covered over with cardboard.

Baba was an obese, dark-skinned man who had gray hair and beady eyes concealed behind thick glasses. He seemed content to stay at his current rank—after twenty years on the force the only promotion he had received was from officer to first officer. Despite this, he was full of himself, as if he were the highest-ranking policeman around.

“Get off your fat ass. Let’s go,” said Hamid, chiding him as usual.

“Where to?”

“To Kandahar.”

“God help us,” Baba replied, lifting himself out of the chair.

 

The neighbor who had first come upon the crime scene had been brought to Detective Hanash’s office. He was standing in the center of the room as he hadn’t been asked to take a seat. His face looked even more exhausted and anxious than when Hanash had seen him in his apartment.

“Speak! Let’s go—out with it,” Hanash said, as he stared him down suspiciously.

“All I can tell you, sir, is the same thing I’ve repeated to the officer and now the inspector,” he responded quietly, clearly frightened. “The whole day is gone now, and I might lose my job.”

Hanash always believed that anyone connected to a crime, however remotely, was guilty until proven innocent. “You’re here to do what you’re asked,” he said. “Is there a problem if you have to repeat what you’ve already said? What are you afraid of?”

The man froze. He had heard some bad stories about those who lent a helping hand to the police, but he was hoping it wouldn’t get to that point.

“This morning, I was headed to work as usual, and I was surprised to find Said’s apartment door open a bit. I called out a few times, and no one answered. So I went inside and found that horrifying scene.”

He started crying bitterly.

The detective didn’t allow him any respite, and continued questioning him. “Your familial situation?”

The man seemed confused, and looked like he didn’t understand.

“Are you married? Divorced?”

“I’ve been divorced for twenty years now. My eighteen- year-old son lives with his mother. She’s remarried, and they live in Salé.”

“What type of relationship did you have with the victim?”

“Just that we were neighbors and were respectful to one another.”

“The murdered girl—did you know her?”

“Never seen her before.”

“Did he usually have girls over?”

“Only God knows. All I know is that he was decent and polite, and everyone said the same thing about him.”

“On the night of the murders, did you hear an argument or a fight break out, anything like that?”

“I heard the stereo playing music until about one in the morning.”

“What songs did you hear?”

“I couldn’t tell. The stereo wasn’t on loud enough.”

“What were you doing at that late hour?” The detective directed this question at the man like an accusation.

“I was getting ready for bed. I was almost asleep when the sound of the stereo woke me up.”

“Had this happened before?”

“No, it had never happened before. Like I said, he was a decent and polite young man who didn’t bother anyone.”

“We think that the night of the murders someone else was with them, maybe more than one other person. You didn’t see anyone?”

“No one, sir.”

“Did he invite you to join them?”

Fear gripped the man. “God protect us from drunkenness and immorality. I am a pious, God-fearing man. I stay away from things forbidden by my faith.”

Hanash was quiet for a moment, then continued: “What can you tell me about the rest of the residents in the building?”

“I don’t really get involved in other people’s business. It seems like the building is filled with respectable families.”

“There’s no one you’re suspicious of?”

His horror at this question was written all over his face. “I have nothing to do with what happened,” he said, exasperated. “I’m just a guy who lives in the building who had the horrible luck of stopping in front of the victim’s door.”

He nearly collapsed. He was physically and emotionally exhausted, and couldn’t believe they hadn’t asked him to sit down.

“You can go. But if you remember anything pertinent to the crime, anything new, call immediately.”

The man nodded submissively and left the office quickly, as if he feared the detective would change his mind.

 

“Welcome to Kandahar!” said Baba as he struggled out of the tiny police car. Hamid shut his door and looked around. This neighborhood seemed more like a film set for a city hit by a tornado. When the local population saw the police car pull up, some people huddled around entryways and others peeked out from rooftops. The children stopped playing ball altogether. Baba zipped up his jacket and was already panting as he tried to catch up with Hamid.

They stopped in front of the house in question. The door was open, but a translucent drape hung over the entrance, through which they could see an old woman stretched out on a bed. Hamid knocked on the door and the woman feebly attempted to sit up.

“Wait, wait,” they heard her say in a perplexed tone. Nezha’s mother was clearly taken by surprise by the police officers.

“Does Nezha al-Gharbi live here?” Baba called in.

“Yes, sir, I’m her mother,” she answered, nodding.

A group of nosy bystanders had gathered around the police.

“Scram!” shouted Baba. “Don’t you have anything better to do with yourselves?”

A look of deep concern swept over Ruqiya’s face, and she became impatient. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“The police,” said Hamid, practically yelling, as if he were addressing someone hard of hearing. “Could we come inside and talk?”

“Please come in, gentlemen. It’s good news, inshallah.”

The two men hadn’t expected the dwelling to be so rundown and miserable. It was so tiny that they couldn’t move around once they’d made their way inside. “Worthy of its name,” Hamid said to himself, thinking how these dwellings really did seem to resemble the burrows in Kandahar—small and dark, like a snake pit.

Baba, tired from simply carrying his own weight around, sat down. Ruqiya sat in front of him, also unable to stand on her own two feet. Hamid remained standing, disturbed by how dark the place was in the middle of the day. Nezha’s mother leaned over to flip a switch and a yellowish light dimly lit the room.

“How long has it been since you’ve seen your daughter?” asked Baba, as he tried to find something to lean on.

“Last night,” she said quickly, still hoping for comforting news. “Has something happened?”

“Did she tell you where she was going?” Hamid asked, leaning on the wall and staring at her.

She hesitated for a second, which roused their suspicion. They sensed that she knew exactly where her daughter was headed, and the kinds of things she got up to.

“What’s happened to my daughter?” she asked, evading their question and starting to cry.

“Your daughter was murdered. She was found with a young man.”

Ruqiya didn’t scream or begin wailing. Instead, she lifted her head and hands upward in a strange motion and began loudly repeating a line from the Quran: “God is enough for us; and how excellent a guardian is He!” She repeated this more than ten times, as if it would undo what they just told her. When her throat ran dry she could no longer keep her composure, and started yelling in a deranged way: “My daughter! My daughter!”

The noise inside the house brought an even larger group of gawkers now. The timing coincided with the end of prayers, and a large group, including Ibrahim and his crew, filtered out from the mosque. They exchanged quizzical looks when they saw the people gathered around his entryway. Ibrahim rushed toward his house, shoving people aside to get to the door. His mother was still screaming when he arrived.

“My daughter is gone! She’s gone!”

She kept repeating the same thing at an unbearable pitch filled with raw emotion. She fell into her son’s embrace and the two of them nearly toppled over.

“What happened to my sister?” said Ibrahim, staring at the two men.

Baba realized he needed to stand, and he got to his feet, his huge belly protruding. “We’re police officers,” he said. “Your sister has been murdered.”

The situation had gotten really claustrophobic with Ibrahim’s arrival.

“Try to calm your mother down and follow us to the station,” Hamid said.

Ibrahim couldn’t control himself, and the tears started running down his cheeks.

“Who killed my sister? Who?” he asked, sobbing.

Hamid had already made his way outside.

“We don’t know yet,” Baba replied, noticing that Ruqiya had collapsed back on the bed. “Try to look after your mother and then meet us at the central police station as soon as possible.”

When the two men exited, the nosy onlookers glared at them with hostility. The two kept moving, their faces expressionless until they sped off in the police car.

Baba looked at his watch and saw that it was one thirty.

“Are you hungry?” he asked Hamid, who was at the wheel.

As they left Kandahar behind, Hamid relaxed, even though the street was jam-packed.

“I can’t stand driving in this city any more,” Hamid said, lamenting the loss of respect for police vehicles in recent years. “You have to draw your gun now to get cars to make way.”

“It’s your hunger that’s getting you worked up,” replied Baba. “Where to eat, and what to eat?”

Hamid sighed and tried to pass a cab as he sounded the siren. When he got next to the cab driver he stuck his head out the window and unloaded all sorts of obscenities, then sped passed him, alarming bystanders.

“All right, what do you want to eat?” Hamid asked Baba.

“We’re close to Restaurant Asmar. It’s been a long time since I’ve had those kebabs.”

“Give them a call,” Hamid said.

Baba put in the order on his cell phone. Five minutes later they turned onto Yazid Street and parked right in front of the restaurant. It had the spit right out front, with smoke rising off it. An employee rushed toward their car carrying a plastic bag with the order. He leaned down and shook Hamid’s hand vigorously, then handed him the bag. The officer thanked him with a nod. It was customary for restaurants to give officers free meals in exchange for added patrols in their area.

“Everything all right?” Hamid asked.

“Things are good, thank God. The patrols have been more frequent lately and we haven’t seen nearly as many pickpockets or beggars around here.”

“God help us,” Hamid said as he pressed on the accelerator. He opened up the bag and the mouthwatering smell filled the car.

“Security in return for lunch—this solution might please the government.” Baba laughed, stuffing a kebab into his mouth.