A TWISTED MIND

SITUATION UPDATE

“Detective Inspector Roger Brown, how can I help you?” He said into the mouthpiece. He had just woken up. A busy man, even on a Sunday he was accustomed to waking up early. He glanced at his watch, 7:45AM East African Time.

“Brown,” was his boss, “we have a situation. Get to the agency as soon as you can do it.”

The line was cut from the other end. He glanced at the phone, what was it again? But he was a detective, finding out was his job. Half an hour later, he was at the agency already past the security checkpoints heading towards the office of the Director of the Directorate of Criminal Investigations HQ, Nairobi.

It was a three-story building sitting on roughly five square kilometers of reserved government land in Kamia forest. All concrete, with ample parking and boasting three helipads and one reserved for ambulance helicopters during an emergency rush to the hospital or evacuation in case of disaster.

It had an open office layout on the ground and first floors. These sections had junior officers. The upper floor contained the offices of the director and others ranging from the Officer in Charge of Field Operations to the Senior Chief of Staff. There were departments in the basement. This was also where the BQ2-634, the latest advanced Super Computer, was situated. It basically ran the activities of the agency: collecting, analyzing and distributing millions of bytes of data in a single day. All the computers in the building were connected to it. If it was hacked and information extracted, it would compromise the entire system. That is why the most brilliant minds in Cyber-crime worked day and night to protect it.

“What`s the situation, Jeffrey?” Roger Brown said as he entered the director`s office, the man he answered directly to even bypassing the OCFO. Everybody in the agency called Director Oersted Mutuma, Jeffrey. Since his wife had posted on f*******: “SWEET 53RD JEFFREY”, the name had stuck.

“Good morning detective,” Oersted said without looking up. His face wore a frown as he examined some photos on top of his desk. The lights in the room were on. Nobody ever understood why the director loathed opening the venetian blinds.

“Coffee?” He said, pointing at the coffee maker sitting on the wooden filing cabinet to his left. Roger went over to it.

The director was sitting behind a mega mahogany desk, stooped over some notes and the folder containing the photos. On his desk were the in and out trays made of metal and a pen holder filled with highlighters of various colors. There also were yellow HB pencils and some fountain pens. Ten huge files lay on top of each other on the left corner of the desk and a bunch of paper-backs on the top right corner.

A desk lamp illuminated the work he was straining to read. Oersted abhorred wearing glasses. And now, at fifty-six, he ought to retire or reconsider his attitude.

“You read my mind, just what I need right now.” Roger said, reaching for the coffee machine and filling up a cup, “want some?”

“Am good.”

Roger looked over his shoulder at the director, “what`s up Jeff, what`s the situation update?”

“Come and have a look at these.”

Brown walked over to one of the swivel chairs in front of the director`s desk and sat down. Oersted passed him the photos in his hands and Roger carefully analyzed them. A whole two minutes passed in silence. He nodded his head occasionally as one hand stroked his goatee, a habit he repeated unaware when deep in thought.

“So what do you think?” Oersted asked, breaking the silence.

“When were these taken?” Roger asked, not taking his eyes off the pictures.

“They just arrived from our boys over at Kahawa West.”

The photos were grotesque and just looking at them made Roger grimace. In one, there was a dead girl in a brown dress. She lay on a concrete pavement in what was quite a compromising position.

“Any sign of r**e?”

“We don`t know yet for sure,” replied Oersted, “Our boys are working on it as we speak.”

“Anything peculiar about them?” He flipped to the next photo.

“There is one thing, all the four victims were found on the same day at the same place. Witnesses who pass that route every day to work claim they were not there yesterday. But they hadn`t their lives snuffed out of them last night either. They were murdered and kept somewhere for some time before being dumped.

“The woman, she was killed two weeks ago, but she`s as fresh as a lettuce can be,” Oersted continued. “The other three males well they`re just a week old, but God the smell.”

Oersted winced as if he was standing right over the bodies and smelling their odor. He had a way with expressions.

“Refrigeration,” Roger said, as-a-matter-of-factly, “this one is different, his hair is all gone. Completely bald.”

On closer examination, the detective noticed both the eyebrows were missing. Was the victim a cancer patient undergoing chemotherapy or radiation treatment before they met their untimely death?

“Up to the back there is nothing,” Roger continued, “how old are they?”

“The girl is twenty-four. We found some ID on her. We are looking for relatives. The bald boy had just turned twenty-six. He had a crumpled birthday card dated two months ago from a certain Shirley. They were all checked for a missing person’s report in the local police databases but nothing came up.

“We found cocaine on one too, about fifty or so grams. The tall one…” He pointed at a picture. Roger pulled it out, “yeah that one. He had ten thousand dollar bills in his pocket.”

“Must be a drug dealer.”

“Thought so too,” cut in the director, “but he was not on our radar. We don`t even have his fingerprints.”

“He worked for one then, or he was just a spoilt rich kid from uptown playing with real s**t from the club. I`ll make sure to look into him.”

DI Brown made a quick glance at his wrist watch. It was a quarter to nine o`clock. He had left the house without breakfast. Again. If only Martha was still around, a thought that flew past his subconscious undetected.

“Anything else I should hear about?”

“Yeah, the victim's tongues were cut off clean and surgically precisely, and their genitals too...”

“What about them?”

“Mutilated.”

“Organ traffickers?” Roger said. Or cannibals, he thought. “Anything else missing?”

“Not yet determined all of that. The pathologist is doing all the examinations.”

“I need to get to the crime scene ASAP. Collect for me the compiled report. But first, I need a drink.”

Giving the orders now, eh, Oersted thought, who does he think he is?

“This early in the morning?”

“Yeah,” Roger replied, “got no clock in this thing.” He said, rubbing his stomach with his hand. He threw the photos on the desk, next to the metal plate inscribed with the director`s position and name.

“The cafeteria serves only soft drinks. None of the hard stuff. Besides, we wouldn`t want anybody getting drunk on the job.”

Roger knew the remark was directed at him, but he let it fly past.

“Guess I will have to head into town first on my way.”

“I guess you do.”

The mockery in Oersted`s voice when he said that statement was too obvious for Roger not to pick up. He got to his feet and turned to leave, walking towards the door.

A hand was on the door knob and turning when the director called out.

“Look Roger, I am really sorry about your wife. What happened to her was tragic. I know it`s hard, all this at once. If there is anything I can do for you, don’t hesitate, just ask. By the way, how is your kid?”

“She is fine Jeff, thanks for asking.

The door closed behind him.

***

Four men sat around the table. A light bulb dangled from the center of the ceiling, illuminating only a small portion of the room below. The men`s faces were obscured, emotionless and contemplating.

“So, what do you suppose we do?” One said, more of a command rather than an inquiry, “we cannot let them roam the streets freely considering how much they know. It could catch up to us.”

“I say we finish them, send both brats to hell,” said the second man, who was seated to the right of the first man. He left that hang in the air for a while.

“I suppose you have a plan for that as well. I mean the police were everywhere after that incident. You f****d up the other day, was it last week or something…” Said a third man.

“I reckon you have a better plan, genius…” The second man hissed, “Please, am all ears.”

The fourth man watched the episode unfold quietly. The room fell silent, only the sound of breathing, short, cracked and raspy from years of smoking.

***

The corridor was dark, save for some light from a single bulb above a door visible at the far end. A tall muscle-bound bouncer stood near the entrance, a steel door. Tom Mugambi approached him with slow but sure steps until just a yard separated them.

“I'm here for Lucky Quinn. He told me to talk to you.”

“ID.” The guard bellowed, stretching out his palm.

Tom scrambled from his back pocket and pulled out a thin card. He handed it over to the bigger man.

The guard produced a small torch and looked over the card, then at Tom, then the card.

“What is my name,” he asked.

“Huh?” Tom was bewildered.

“Tell me my name.”

“Do you mean my name? It`s on the card. But your name I have no idea.”

Without another word, the guard buzzed him in. He talked into a mouthpiece set on his wrist. The huge door behind him was unlocked and he pushed it. He beckoned Tom to enter.

“I`ll hold on to this for a while,” the bouncer said, indicating the ID card, then shut the door behind Tom.

Inside, the music that blasted Tom was electrifying and deafening. It was a disco of some sort, Tom thought, an underground club den. It was packed to the rim. Neon disco lights danced all over the high roof. There was a DJ with his equipment at the far front on a raised stage. Tom felt confused for a while, he had not in the least expected this. From outside, the loud music could not be heard. Suddenly, he felt a firm hand grab him. He turned around to see who it was. Another bouncer, towering well above him, stood there.

“Come with me,” the bouncer shouted over the music. He pulled Tom through the crowd to the right, then up a flight of stairs and onto the corridor* where the VIP section was. Past the partygoers in the VIP section, was a doorway leading to other rooms. Tom was led through one of these until they stopped outside a wooden door. The music now seemed far away. The bouncer turned the gold-coated door knob and ushered Tom inside. The door slammed shut behind Tom. The bouncer had not followed him inside.

Tom found himself confronting three armed men. Another one was seated at a table. He was older than the rest. One of the men, in a black tuxedo suit, came and frisked him, then motioned him to a chair at the table across from the older man.

From where he now sat, Tom could see the whole dance floor though a glass window that apparently covered the whole wall on his right. The room was simply furnished. Its walls were bare.

The man seated across the table from Tom, drinking from a glass and a bottle of Grand Mariner next to it, was Lucky Quinn. He wore a white silk suit and a colorful beach shirt inside his coat. A thick white beard plastered his face, contrasting with the bald shiny head sitting on his shoulders. Gravity and aging were taking a toll on him. His skin drooped to form wrinkles all over his countenance.

“The infamous Lucky Quinn. I have finally met you. I came as you called me. I need a job…” Tom said, finally breaking the silence.

Lucky lifted his glass and took a sip of the Grand Mariner and winced.

“Cherry Alabana. 1806, best whiskey you will ever taste in your life, boy. There are only six bottles of these remaining in the whole world,” a thin smile formed on his face, “I have this for tonight, so that tells you, only five remain. Do you know what that means?”

“You have good taste in wine and are stinking rich too, because that’s some expensive s**t right there,” Tom replied.

“Yes, and yes. But it has to tell you something else about me. I am willing to do anything to satisfy myself with the best in life. Somebody died for me to get this, with a little help from my friend, Mr. Lewis here,” Lucky pointed. One of the men in the tuxedo made a bow, going so low Tom thought he would fall forward, “I hope it was no bother.”

“No sir,” Mr. Lewis quickly said, “not at all, it was a pleasure.”

Lucky signaled for another glass to be brought. When it came, from a small cabinet in the corner, he himself served Tom the Grand Mariner.

“Much appreciated, Mr. Quinn, sir, but that’s not what brought me here.”

Lucky gave out a low mournful sigh, gulped down his glass, and looked directly at Tom, then said, “what if I told you that all these people you see on the dance floor there,” he pointed past the window , then chuckled, revealing huge colored teeth, “are to die tonight!”

Tom was puzzled. Taken by surprise at the old man’s remarks. There was a tone in Quinn`s voice that echoed in his mind that the man was dead serious. He managed a smile.

“You are kidding…right?”

Lucky raised his Cherry Alabana at Tom and softened his face.

“Hahaha, got you there. Of course I am joking. Cheers.”

Tom gave out a sigh of relief, raised his glass and they clinked as they met in the air.

***