13

Two men lifted Abdel-Jalil by the armpits and moved him from Kinko’s room in the basement to a holding cell. He couldn’t walk on his own because the soles of his feet had been caned—they were split open and bloody. They tossed him into a corner of the cell, where he remained, crumpled on the ground and in anguish from his wounds, not to mention his hunger, thirst, and nausea from the urine-soaked rag that Kinko had stuffed in his mouth. Kinko was the best on the force when it came to intimidation and torture. He’d really honed his craft following the 2003 terrorist attacks in Casablanca. He regretted having to adapt to recent protocols, which demanded a bit more caution, such as not leaving discernible marks of torture.

Before the guards brought Abdel-Jalil into Hanash’s office they let him wash his face and clean off his clothes, and they gave him a dry crust of bread with a bit of butter on it. They brought him up cuffed and pushed him into the center of the office. Hanash ordered the guard to remove his cuffs.

“Take a seat, Abdel-Jalil,” he said in a paternal voice. “Now, take a good look at this sheet. Look closely at the box next to number thirteen, your seat number. Look closely . . . see how there is no mark next to number thirteen for the midnight bus to Fez on Sunday night? That means that you didn’t go see your family.”

Abdel-Jalil’s face turned white and he couldn’t look at Hanash.

“Lift up your head and answer the detective!” yelled Hamid.

“I swear to God I traveled. Ask my family in Fez.”

Hanash circled around his desk and smacked the closet door.

“Now you’ve pissed off the boss,” Hamid whispered, leaning into Abdel-Jalil. “Is that what you wanted?”

Hanash returned to his desk, his chest heaving. “Why did you force your family to lie?” he asked. “Do you know what will happen to them? All of them are going to be arrested for providing false information and misleading the police. I’m going to call the chief of police in Fez now and have them all arrested.”

He lifted up the receiver and started entering the number.

“Your poor parents,” Hamid added. “What did they ever have to do with this?”

Abdel-Jalil began sobbing and imploring Hanash not to make the call.

“I beg you, sir. My father has diabetes. This news would give him a heart attack.”

Hanash put the phone down and glared at him. “Come on, Abdel-Jalil,” he chided. “Be a man.”

“Oh God, this is exactly what I feared,” Abdel-Jalil said, as if he were addressing himself. “I’ll tell you everything from the beginning.”

He told them how he ran into Nezha after purchasing his bus ticket to Fez, and how he suggested that she join him at his friend’s apartment, since he lived so close to the bus terminal. He mentioned that they agreed on three hundred dirhams for the night. When they arrived at Said’s, Abdel-Jalil related, he was shocked to find Said already drunk when he opened the door, and said that Said immediately became infatuated with Nezha and wanted her for himself.

“I don’t know how I got roped into drinking. Maybe it was because of my friend’s behavior. He wanted Nezha for himself and was so aggressive in trying to kick me out of the place to be alone with her. I think every time he reminded me of my bus’s departure time I drank more. Despite our friendship, I’m not his pimp! Did he really think I had hunted down a prostitute to bring back for him? Then he started asking me to go out to buy more cigarettes—to get rid of me. Then an idea came to me . . . well, more like the damn alcohol told me . . . why don’t I head out, and when I get back and see that Said already had his way with Nezha, I’ll have a turn myself, and get a bit of revenge by being rough. So I left the door slightly open and went out to the street, looking for someone selling cigarettes. I think I walked around for more than fifteen minutes until I found some. I know it was about that long because I smoked more than one on the way back. At that point, trust me, I wasn’t thinking about Nezha nearly as much as I was thinking about Said. I remembered that his entire month’s salary was in a drawer in his nightstand. I suddenly got scared that Nezha would steal his money. When I got back to the apartment I was surprised to find the door wide open. In the bedroom there was blood everywhere . . . it was still fresh. Steam was rising off it like when sheep are slaughtered at Eid. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I wasn’t sure if it was real or the alcohol was messing with me. Next thing I knew I was in the street, running. I desperately wanted to run into someone who I could tell, but at the same time I thought that what I saw might all have been an alcohol-induced hallucination. I kept running until I got home, despite the distance. I took a cold shower, and it was at that point I realized that there was no way that what I saw was some hallucination. The horrifying scene that I saw in my friend’s bedroom was real. So what now? I thought. If I called the police . . . you guys . . . I’d immediately be a suspect, since I was the last one with Said and Nezha. I’d be detained until they could find the killer, in which case I’d lose my job. They’d have no sympathy at the factory—people are fired over anything. And then, even after you find the killer I’d have to give testimony about drinking and being involved with a prostitute, so I’d be imprisoned for those things anyway.

“So I was scared I’d be fired from my job if I called the police. I can’t lose my job—I support my whole family. When I saw the bus ticket in my wallet an idea came to mind. As I thought back through everything that happened, I was sure that no one had seen me, and no one else knew what happened. So why not just go to Fez as planned? I changed my clothes, went to the train station, and took the first train I could to Fez. That’s the truth.”

Hanash listened intently, and once Abdel-Jalil had finished he relaxed in his chair. Hamid, on the other hand, smiled sarcastically and shook his head, not believing a single word.

“You concocted this whole scenario just because you were afraid of losing your job?” Hamid said, ridiculing him. “Did you tell your family what happened?”

Abdel-Jalil seized up, and then he started bawling. “I told everyone what happened. My father said that the police are sophisticated and would solve the case in the blink of an eye. They were sure that the truth would come out and the killer would be apprehended yesterday. Then no one would even find out about the drinking and all the rest of it, and I wouldn’t get fired.”

Hanash reached his arms out over the desk as if he wanted to strangle Abdel-Jalil.

“Alcohol motivates lots of guys like you to commit crimes they would have never imagined. The booze intensified your jealousy. You lost it and killed them both.”

“If you confess to the double murder,” Hamid chimed in, “we’ll look the other way regarding the drinking and debauchery charges, and you won’t lose your job.”

“Ha, right!” Hanash added. “But maybe it’s best to confess to the drinking, since it’s one of those defenses that could actually lessen your sentence in a murder trial.”

 

Around three thirty, Detective Hanash gathered everyone in his office; the three officers were there, as well as Inspector Hamid. The officers were shooting the breeze before they got down to business. They were talking about Qazdabo, and how no one thought he was actually sick. They agreed that he was probably just desperate to see his wife, since they all knew how much he talked about women. Qazdabo didn’t hide his frustration over the fact that he was by himself, sleeping in a damp office with rats, while the others got to return home to their wives. He also didn’t really hide his role as the detective’s informant. They all knew. But the others benefited from his tendency to play the double-agent role—he would warn his friends on the force if they were being monitored and update them about Detective Hanash’s mood before they went to request something from him.

“Qazdabo will be in tomorrow,” said Hanash, smiling, as he returned to his chair to start the meeting.

Hanash flipped through the interrogation files and other reports and then put the case file aside. He seemed to be brimming with a sense of satisfaction and resolve as he scanned the group of men sitting in front of him. He read the same emotions in their demeanors.

Hamid talked about the inspection of Abdel-Jalil’s apartment, which hadn’t uncovered anything of note. There was no trace of the murder weapon, or any bloodstained clothing. Hamid showed his boss a bunch of photos they had found in the apartment of Said and Abdel-Jalil together, photos taken at work and elsewhere, confirming their close friendship.

The only major decision they made during this meeting was to summon Abdel-Jalil’s entire immediate family from Fez.

“I want them here tomorrow morning at eight,” the detective ordered.

“We need to grill them,” Hamid added, as he scribbled in his notebook. “We have to find out how involved they were in all this.”

The prevailing mood in the office was that they were close to wrapping up this case, that they were closing in on victory. The real moment of glory would be when they reenacted the crime on site with a huge audience of television reporters, journalists, and photographers. Crime reenactments had started getting serious television coverage and the print media always plastered their front pages with headlines and photos from them. The reenactment was also when the lead investigators could speak directly to the media, and they would be portrayed as heroes.

Everyone in the office knew that Detective Hanash was dying to get to this closing ceremony, where he could declare in front of everyone gathered: “Wherever alcohol and debauchery mingle, crime is just around the corner.”

The issue that still nagged everyone was the murder weapon. The report said it was either a large knife or a sword. Of late, thieves had actually been using swords during break-ins. Abdel-Jalil didn’t have any priors, and certainly was not a thief, so how would he have gotten his hands on something like that? And how had he disposed of it? These issues were frustrating Detective Hanash. Dwelling on these uncertainties, he felt like he was falling into a black hole, so he would return again to the indisputable facts of the case.

Baba, the man who wheezed even when he wasn’t exerting any physical effort, was the one who raised another issue the others had overlooked—the money that had disappeared from the crime scene. In Abdel-Jalil’s confession they learned that he and Said had both received their wages that day. The first team on the scene had found an envelope with a pay stub from the factory for three thousand five hundred dirhams. According to Abdel-Jalil, Said had the money in an envelope in a drawer, but he denied having taken it after discovering the murders. Could the cash that disappeared be linked to the missing murder weapon?

No one in the office wanted to offer some half-baked hypothesis on this, fearing it would anger Hanash, but what if the motive behind the murder was theft, and not related to alcohol and sex?

“Could we follow up on the disappearance of this cash?” asked Bu’u.

“Abdel-Jalil put the cash in his pocket after taking his revenge,” Miqla proposed, narrowing his eyes.

“If he was the one who stole the money, why did he tell us about it in the first place?” Baba shot back.

This question silenced them: it was a good point.

“Let’s set aside for the moment the issue of the cash that disappeared,” Hanash said. “The most important thing now is to figure out how to make this obstinate bastard confess where he hid the murder weapon.”

Miqla’s eyes lit up. “Let him spend a night with Kinko, hanging by his feet with that rag in his mouth,” he suggested. “Tomorrow he’ll confess that he even tried killing the pope himself!”

The officers laughed and Baba winked at Miqla knowingly. Whenever Miqla wanted to joke at Baba’s expense he’d use this play on words, since the word Baba was also the name for the pope. These antics usually took place behind Hanash’s back.

“Tell Kinko not to leave any marks,” Hanash warned, agreeing to Miqla’s suggestion.

“Kinko has modified his techniques according to the new human rights accord,” joked Bu’u.

The meeting had lasted an hour and ten minutes and they all agreed on the same set of conclusions: Abdel-Jalil was the murderer; he had a strong motive, and he had contrived a story with his family to mislead the police. It was hard to see things any other way in spite of Abdel-Jalil’s adamant denial or the issue of a missing murder weapon and cash.

Hanash remained in his office for a few more hours by himself, examining the documents, rereading the reports and interrogations, and trying to resolve some of the inconsistencies. He felt as if there were loose ends, but he didn’t know how to connect them to one another. What really incensed him was the total lack of useful evidence presented in the medical and forensics reports. If he wanted final confirmation of anything in these reports, he’d be waiting another couple of weeks at least.

He was the last to leave the precinct, at around seven. These two and a half extra hours were a gift he bestowed upon the administration. As he headed to his police car, his mood lightened. He was starting to get this feeling of being untouchable—a feeling he got only when he was close to solving a crime. And this crime had been giving him fits of anxiety because of his previous encounter with a victim. He smiled as he drove onto the wide avenue and pulled up in front of his daughter’s salon.

The bright neon lights blinking in the salon window delighted him. He entered and found himself in heaven, surrounded by a cadre of beautiful young women. The oldest was no more than twenty-five. They were all dressed in the latest fashions, wearing outfits that exposed parts of their midriffs and lower backs. He quickly forgot what he had come for, and stood marveling at this exhibition of lovely, scented young bodies.

“We didn’t expect to see you, sir. How can I help?” asked one his daughter’s employees, who recognized that he was Manar’s father.

He smiled bashfully, finding it difficult to put words together. “I’m here on Manar’s behalf, since she’s in Marrakesh. She asked me to check if you needed anything.”

*

At eight o’clock sharp Hanash was in his office, clean-shaven and sharply dressed. He was wearing his Wednesday suit, a navy-blue Christian Dior that Rubio had given him as a gift last year. He had on a white button-down with a crimson tie. He called down to the café to order his morning coffee and then thumbed through the files on his desk, rereading a few important sections from the reports. He didn’t even lift his eyes when the waiter entered to bring his coffee. He thanked him with a hand motion as he assiduously kept reading, searching for anything that might inspire him anew. Hamid arrived, and gave a salute before Hanash ordered him to sit.

As expected, Hamid was wearing a professionally pressed suit, although it was clear that he had bought it secondhand. The jacket had a stodgy British look to it, as if the previous owner was a lord in parliament. The necktie didn’t quite match the suit’s style.

“Has Qazdabo returned to work?” Hanash asked, smiling.

“Yes,” Hamid replied, nodding. “He’s in the office with the others.”

“Okay, good. The first thing we’re going to do today is hear out Abdel-Jalil’s family.”

Hamid nodded. “They’re all here,” he said. “They’re in the hallway waiting. Would you prefer to interrogate them in my office?”

“Not before I take a look at them,” Hanash said, pressing the button to open the door.

The whole family entered his office—Abdel-Jalil’s two parents and three sisters, who were all veiled and attractive. The eldest was around forty, and the youngest was thirty-two. It was obvious that they had spent the night on the road. Their eyes were weary and bloodshot due to the approximately two hundred miles of travel that separated Fez and Casablanca. They all lined up next to one another in front of the detective. They made for a sad sight. Abdel-Jalil’s mother looked completely distraught. Her face was white as a sheet, and she looked like she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. His father was swaying and looked as though he might fall. The sisters stood with their heads bowed. They were all holding hands, as if they anticipated being separated into individual jail cells. Hanash looked at them in astonishment and exchanged a look with Hamid. He pressed the button again and ordered the guard to go get Abdel-Jalil.

“Why did you lie and force the rest of the family to lie?” Hanash asked the father.

In unison—as if they had rehearsed in advance—all five of them cringed and burst out in tears. Hanash saw how exhausted the parents were and ordered them to sit. He looked closely at the mother. She was thin but hardened, much
tougher-looking than her frail husband. She wore a white jalabiya and her hair was drawn back behind a white headscarf. Her striking black eyes shifted between Hamid and Hanash.

“There is no way my son committed murder,” she stammered. “I know my son. He is virtuous and tolerant, and has a gentle heart. Since the day his father fell ill with diabetes he’s become the breadwinner. Look at these women, sir. They are all stuck at home without jobs or husbands. Abdel-Jalil would prefer, a thousand times over, to be killed rather than abandon his sisters.”

The sisters were sobbing by this point. The father’s head drooped, rocking left and right.

“You haven’t answered the detective’s question,” Hamid interrupted her sharply. “Why did you lie to the police when they interrogated you in Fez? You lied about the time of your son’s arrival. You covered up his double murder.”

“What you’ve done,” interjected Hanash, “is punishable by law.”

“We didn’t lie, sir,” said the father in a hoarse voice. “We told the police in Fez exactly what our son advised us to say. You have to understand, I’m more than seventy-five years old and I’ve worked with ceramics my whole life. We’ve always lived honorably, and we will die honorably, inshallah. What we did, sir, isn’t lying, because we didn’t accuse anyone, and we didn’t offer false witness. We were in an impossible situation. My son is not a murderer. There is no way he could have killed someone. If he lied, it was for one reason: to keep his job.”

There was a knock on the door. It opened, and Kinko pushed a handcuffed Abdel-Jalil into the center of the office. His face looked like death. He could barely stand on his bare feet. He tried to move toward his mother to embrace her, but instead collapsed on the ground in front of her.

“They’re wrong . . . Mom, I’ve been wrongly accused,” he said in a strained voice.

The office took on the atmosphere of a funeral, and it was impossible to continue with the interrogation.

 

As it approached eleven in the morning, after more than two hours of work, Hanash hadn’t learned anything new. He entrusted Hamid with conducting the interrogations of the family members. The prime suspect, Abdel-Jalil, was now in a cell, still denying any involvement. Farqash had to be released from his temporary detainment. On top of everything, there was still no sign of the murder weapon or missing cash.

Hanash rocked back and forth in his chair, running through everything that had happened from start to finish. He had no idea who could have done it other than Abdel-Jalil. He was the last to see the two victims, and he had concocted a story, supposedly because he didn’t want to lose his job. After seeing Abdel-Jalil’s woeful family, was it not possible that he was also motivated to commit this heinous act because he wanted to steal Said’s wages? The detective knew plenty of horrible murders had been committed for paltry sums, not exceeding a few dirhams. But the fact remained, Abdel-Jalil was the one who had told them about the cash. If he wasn’t the thief, that meant someone else had entered the bedroom after he left, opened the nightstand drawer, and taken the cash, but left the pay stub in the envelope. Why hadn’t the thief taken the envelope too? He made a connection as he rocked in the chair: the thief must not have known that the envelope had cash in it before he looked inside, or else he would have put the whole envelope into his pocket. He must have opened the envelope, looking for something to steal, come across the cash inside, taken it, and left the envelope in its place. Whoever the thief was had time to do all this before the police arrived. An image of the upstairs neighbor who had notified the police about the crime flashed into his mind. He searched feverishly among the reports until he found the interrogation file for the man. He reread it carefully and gave orders to Baba and Miqla to bring him back in.

Hanash got up to take a lap through the criminal investigations wing that he oversaw. He used a hand gesture to signal to everyone to continue working, and not stop to salute. But Qazdabo didn’t comply—he stopped cold, as though he’d been struck by lightning, and gave an energetic salute. Hanash smiled and asked after his family, then continued on. When he approached Hamid’s office he could hear the sisters wailing and the mother whimpering. He wondered how they would ever finish up the interrogation if they wouldn’t stop crying.

 

Less than an hour later the man who had notified the police about the crime was standing in front of him. He could hardly compose himself, and was paralyzed by fear.

“Do you know why we brought you back here?” Hanash asked.

The man started crying like a bereaved mother and cursed himself for calling the police after discovering the crime scene. Hanash ignored his wailing and accused him of stealing cash from an envelope in the drawer of the nightstand next to Said’s bed. On top of that, he accused him of lying.

“We found your fingerprints on the envelope that had money stolen from it.”

Hanash surprised even himself in saying this. He remained indifferent to the man who, by now, had fallen to his knees and was begging Hanash to let him go. Hanash thought he must be in denial over the accusations directed at him. He was fed up with him, so he called for Kinko. When he arrived, he gave him orders to deal with the man.

As usual when acting on an impulse, Hanash kept whatever was in his mind to himself, refusing to tell anyone until he found proof.

Hanash took the keys to Said’s apartment out of a safe and snuck out of the office. He drove quickly to the crime scene and parked a few meters from the building.

As he opened the door, a nasty smell hit him and rats shot off in all directions. Everything in the apartment had remained untouched, just as they’d left it. When he flipped the light switch in the bedroom he was confronted by a disgusting scene—the blood all over the bed and walls had dried and tiny insects had begun feasting on these last human remains. He pinched his nostrils and opened the drawer in the nightstand. The envelope was still there with the paystub inside. He placed it in a plastic evidence bag and rushed back outside. He knew that while this envelope may not have held any importance during the initial investigation, it had become a crucial piece of evidence following Abdel-Jalil’s confession about the cash that had vanished.

He drove immediately to the forensics lab. It was a small building, and looked nothing like the massive labs you saw on TV. He handed the envelope to the head of the forensics team and asked him graciously to deliver the results as soon as possible.

 

The results that the forensics team delivered were both unexpected and alarming. The only fingerprints on the envelope were those of Officer Qazdabo.

Hanash reread the report more than once, wondering how this could have happened without one of his men seeing Qazdabo. Hanash remembered his strange behavior before he left to see his family. This must be why he had claimed he was sick: it was because he had stolen the cash from the crime scene. There could be no doubt about it. Hanash recalled thefts by officers in previous cases, but never had this happened in a murder case that the whole nation was following.

A feeling of distress washed over him, and Hanash took a moment to calm down before he lifted the receiver and gravely summoned Hamid.

Hamid entered, his eyes wide with anticipation. He had expected the worst based on the tone of Hanash’s voice. Hanash didn’t even ask him to take a seat. He tossed the forensics report right at him, and Hamid started reading.

“This is horrible!” Hamid exclaimed hoarsely. “This is the end for Qazdabo. But, detective, we can’t just accuse him based on these fingerprints. We have to get him to confess on his own.”

Hanash got up and walked around his desk. “You’re the one who was in charge of the investigation before I arrived!” he yelled. “Where were you when Qazdabo opened up the envelope and took the cash?” Hanash glared at Hamid.

“Detective,” Hamid replied, trying to hide his refusal to assume responsibility. “Here’s how it happened: we got a call from the man who discovered the crime—”

Hanash waved his hand, stopping him mid-sentence, and then picked up the phone to dial Kinko’s number.

“Kinko, release the man who notified us of the crime immediately.” He replaced the receiver and looked back at Hamid. “Continue.”

“Like I was saying, sir, after I received the news from dispatch I gave orders to the security detail to head to the area, surround it, and guard the perimeter from looters or nosy bystanders. I didn’t order Qazdabo to go with them, but when I arrived on the scene I found him inside, by himself. I was surprised to find him there, coming out of the bedroom pretending that he was about to throw up.”

Hanash nodded, acknowledging the gravity of what he was hearing. He fell back into his chair, ordered Hamid to sit down, and picked up the phone to request Qazdabo.

“We need to coax him into talking about this without threatening him,” Hanash said.

Qazdabo appeared at the office door and gave an anxious salute along with a silly smile.

“Please, come in and sit, Officer Qaddur,” said Hanash, addressing him by his real name.

Qazdabo sat down half-heartedly. It was clear that he knew why he had been summoned.

“How is your family doing?” Hamid asked, smiling wryly.

“My eldest, Omar, who is fifteen, wants to drop out of school. He’s really giving his mother a headache, and she’s all alone with them while I’m up here.”

Hanash handed him the forensics report. Qazdabo grabbed the paper and remained completely still as he looked it over. He returned it to Hanash and looked at him with his silly smile, indicating that he didn’t quite understand what it said.

“What does this mean, sir?” Qazdabo asked.

Hanash tossed his head back lightly, trying to keep his composure. “Don’t test me,” he said, in a paternalistic tone. “Don’t make your situation any worse. I’ll give you one day to return the thirty-five hundred dirhams that you took. Then we’ll clear all this from the records, and nothing will get out about it.”

“I don’t understand,” said Qazdabo, in horror. “What are you talking about, sir?”

“On the day the investigation began,” Hamid intervened, incensed, “I caught you coming out of the bedroom where the victims had been murdered. You were the first person to arrive at the scene. You took it upon yourself to enter the crime scene before I arrived!”

“Qazdabo, you don’t want me to hand this forensics report over to another unit, do you?” Hanash asked. He reached out and grabbed the phone, waiting for Qazdabo’s response.

Qazdabo lowered his head. He seemed to be weighing his options before giving a definitive response. Finally he lifted his head, his eyes welling up with tears.

“Will you be able to forgive me, sir?” he said imploringly. “Could you at least show mercy for my children, who would become homeless?”

“Confess to what happened first!” Hamid rebuked him with unexpected severity.

“I give you my word,” said Hanash.

“Okay, I’ll confess.” Qazdabo closed his eyes, placed his quivering hands on his knees, and began his confession. “Yes, I was the first to arrive at the crime scene. It must have been the devil himself who tempted me to look in the open nightstand drawer. Then I found the envelope and saw the money. I said to myself: ‘The rightful owner of this money has been murdered, and left us for eternity.’ Meanwhile, I’m here on earth drowning in debts. I send all my wages to my wife in Taza, and you know I have five children. You know I can’t even rent a room here in the city. You’re the one who allows me to use the abandoned office on the top floor.”

While confessing, Qazdabo hadn’t been paying attention as Hanash got up from his chair, hung his jacket on the coat hanger, and rolled up his sleeves. Hanash smacked Qazdabo so forcefully that he flew out of the chair.

“You bastard!”

Hanash had never felt so enraged before. Even in Tan-gier, when he was working with drug traffickers and violent criminals, he had never been as angry and disappointed as he was now. He felt like Qazdabo was mocking him and had completely underestimated the consequences. Even worse, he couldn’t believe that Qazdabo thought that his personal circumstances might save him. Qazdabo crawled over to Hanash and fell at his feet, kissing them in a gross display of humiliation.

“The fate of my children is in your hands. Please don’t send me to prison. You gave me your word, sir. I didn’t find 3,500 dirhams in the envelope; I found 3,200.”

Instead of making things better, this further enraged Hanash, and he kicked Qazdabo in the stomach.

“You don’t deserve any mercy!” he shouted indignantly. “You’re a corrupt piece of shit who gives our profession a bad name!”

Up until that moment, Qazdabo had been expecting forgiveness, but when he saw the detective reach for the phone to call for the security guards he drew the gun out of the holster under his armpit, aimed it at Hanash’s heart, and fired. The phone fell from Hanash’s hand, and he crashed to the floor. Before Hamid had a chance to react, Qazdabo put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. The bullet passed right through his skull and lodged itself in the wall, along with shards of bone and pieces of brain.