THREE
"Ghaith here is a certified genius!" Omar laughed, as though pointing out a duck on the Moon. "We knew that when we were kids. He could recite every sura in the Holy Koran by the age of...were you out of your swaddling yet, Ghaith?"
Ghaith snorted dismissively.
"Don't deny it," Omar joshed. "Sayyid Qutb was the same way. It's an honor from God, isn't it? What a mind! How many languages do you speak? Three? Four? And those are just the ones I knew about the last time we met."
The policeman standing next to the pickup truck sent a toothy grin through the passenger window. Ghaith did not credit him with much intelligence, although he had only first met him an hour ago. Didn't even know his name.
"We parted ways long ago," Omar sighed. "I went into construction, while Ghaith here went on to bigger and better things."
"I don't know about bigger," Ghaith laughed. "Didn't you tell me you worked on the Sweet Water? They don't get much bigger than that."
Ghaith did not add that he knew much more than that about Omar.
They were parked near a canal, but not the Sweet Water. They could hear the imposing rush of water from outlets leading back past apricot tree orchards to the river, only slightly muted by the thick ranks of reeds on the embankment. Ghaith had seen them, just before Omar doused the truck lights. They had shifted like nervous, skeletal sentries. The loudly jetting water was a seamless burden on the night.
"Sweet Water!" Omar made a sound of disgust. "I haven't been back there in years. The last I heard, it had two meters of silt and was mostly undrinkable. Totally gone to ruin."
"It'll be dredged," Ghaith tried to reassure him. "Repaired. One day. You'll see."
"Yes, but by who?" Omar's attempt to look cheerful was painfully obvious. "You've done well for yourself," he said, poking Ghaith in the shoulder, as if they were still children sharing bites from a single piece of lu'mat al-adi. "In spite of everything, you're a big success. It shows."
It almost sounded like an accusation, and Ghaith's response was a shade defensive. "Omar, I'm a clerk, that's all."
The policeman standing outside bobbed his head, laughing. Maybe he really was an idiot. Or worse.
"You're a lot busier than I am, these days," Omar shook his head. "I'm on our neighborhood advisory council."
"That's excellent," Ghaith said. "That's what we need more of."
"Try making a living out of it. I'm also digging sewage ditches."
"It has to be done. Cholera has broken out in some districts."
"Then why aren't you out there with a shovel?" Omar caught himself. "Ghaith, it's hard not to--"
"I understand." Ghaith glanced at the policeman through the window, then back at Omar. "Is that why you drove me thirty kilometers to the middle of nowhere? To tell me this?"
"I told you, I want you to meet someone.”
"Your Imam.”
"He can be of enormous help...to all of us."
"A Twelver?" The question was rhetorical. Ghaith knew the Imam Omar referred to was Shia.
“Hojatolesam Abdollah—“ Omar leaned forward suddenly, peering through the windshield. Both he and Ghaith spotted headlights up the road at the same moment.
"Is this him?" Ghaith asked.
Omar gripped the steering wheel, as though bracing himself. After a moment, he said, "Naqib is on his way out. They're bringing in Jabar."
Ghaith stared at him. "Since when were you so familiar with the inner workings of the Ministry?"
"There will be changes. Changes bigger than you can imagine."
"I can imagine," Ghaith said slowly.
"You understand, don't you?" said Omar, his voice trailing into a flimsy rag of sound. In this heat, the sweat patches merging from his armpits to his chest was understandable. But the steering wheel had become slick from his hands. Noting his own weak voice, he repeated, more sternly, “You understand?”
"Under the circumstances, in such friendly surroundings, yes," Ghaith answered, reaching into his shirt pocket for his cigarettes. "I'm going to die."
Omar raised his head. "No fear. You haven't changed."
Ghaith did not speak.
“I’ve changed my name,” Omar said, clearing his throat. “It’s no longer Omar. It’s Abid Ali.”
Ghaith got a good laugh out of that. His old playmate was telling him he was no longer Sunni. Abid Ali-Omar stared at him.
"You're the only man I've ever met who has no faith. No god. No tribe. Truly none."
"I believe in God, Omar,” Ghaith said, blowing smoke. “I just don't have a high opinion of Him."
It happened in the 3rd Precinct, Sector 312:
Jerry Riggins. Thirty-two. Artist. Found slumped in an easy chair in the first floor living room. A single gunshot to the side of the head. Thirty-eight caliber.
Moria Riggins. Thirty-one. Entrepreneur. Part-owner of Moria's Notions. Found upstairs in bed, in the master bedroom. A single gunshot to the side of the head. Thirty-eight caliber.
Joshua Riggins. Seven. Found in bed, in his bedroom down the hall from the master bedroom. Single gunshot.
William Riggins. Five. Found in bed, in his bedroom one door down from Joshua's. Single gunshot.
This was the bare outline of the story that Ari discovered in the local newspaper's internet archives. Munching on a bag of Fritos, he tried to delve further into the crime--via cyberspace.
There wasn't much. The police had been alerted by an anonymous phone tip. When they arrived they found that the back door had been forced. "Really smashed in," as one of the officers put it. The accompanying picture attested to this, with broken glass piled on the sill of a door half off its hinges and large splinters from the jam leaning across the opening. It was assumed that (Howie's protest notwithstanding) a neighbor had heard the racket and called from an untraceable number. ("Really?" Ari mused.) The motive appeared to be robbery. Although a complete inventory was unavailable, the insurance company reported the absence of some rings and necklaces. The killers must have possessed some rare common sense: trace evidence was nonexistent. There were no unaccountable fingerprints or footprints on the premises. There were no ridges of evidence on which the DNA profilers could toss their genetic grappling hooks: no saliva, no mucous, no skin under the victims’ nails, no semen, no wayward strands of hair. Speculation was that there was more than one culprit, but there was no real reason why the reporters would suggest this. The bullets had all come from the same gun.
The article made no mention of any signs of resistance. Nor did it divulge any forensic details about the wound ballistics. A 150-grain round nose bullet penetrated, a controlled expansion 110-grain hollowpoint left a wider track and was more prone to deform the target. Had the police encountered neat holes or bloody messes? Ari thought the question important. The type of ammunition used sometimes revealed the killer’s expertise and premeditation.
He knew something about these things.
The murders had taken place near midnight, on December 23. Jerry Riggins' last sight had been of the Christmas tree in the corner of his living room.
Nearly all of other online articles dealt with the communal sense of loss and sorrow. The Riggins family had been well-beloved. A host of friends and acquaintances left testaments on their websites (one that displayed some of Jerry's art and announced upcoming shows, another for Moria's Notions) and on a blog provided by the newspaper. Ari scanned through them. Most seemed heartfelt.
"We will miss you at church, Moria. Your dedication to the Lord and your public service will be missed. Your children were so dear, so wonderful. And while we didn't see much of Jerry, he too will be missed."
So Jerry wasn't much of a churchgoer. Ari could sympathize with that.
“What can I say? I will miss you. All the old Rebels of ‘92 will miss you. Remember the pyramid? My ankle still hurts when it rains! Oh please, Moria, come back. Come back. KS.”
Alongside the sadness lay fear. This neighborhood was sequestered from the hot crime spots of the city, the Riggins house even more so--tucked far away from the main road in a snug cul-de-sac, with the wide and innocent James protecting the front door. For something like this to happen in a place like this brought home the rawbone uncertainty of life. Nobody was safe, and with the killer or killers still at large, unpleasant possibilities lurked in every dark corner. While common consensus was that the perpetrators must be far away by now, there loomed the risk that they were known to their victims. That they could even be neighbors.
It was not a good time for a stranger to be taking up residence, Ari thought, especially when that stranger was replacing a family so popular, and so gruesomely displaced. Especially when that stranger was undeniably foreign, bearing a striking resemblance to the late Gamal Abdel Nasser, dark complexion, pencil moustache and all.
More to the point was the time of murder. The coroner placed it in the wee hours, a little before or after midnight. But Howie had told Ari it had happened in broad daylight.
Of course, it could have been an exaggeration. Ari's English was excellent, but he occasionally misinterpreted figures of speech. Perhaps 'broad daylight' could be interpreted as 'in a safe and friendly neighborhood like this.'
The keyboard became greasy from Ari's Fritos. The snack had been inside one of the five shopping bags on the kitchen counter. Most everything else looked inedible to him. Even the milk in the refrigerator seemed bland.
He plugged his charger into the same electrical strip used by the computer and slid his cell phone into the cradle.
After a night spent on the bare wood floor, Ari set out next morning in search of real food. Fortunately, he found an Indo-Pak grocery on Hull Street that was heavy on the cuisine of Northern India which he often favored. Unfortunately, the store did not take credit cards. A small container of paneer cubes, some roti wrapped in cellophane, a box of chick peas, a variety of chaats, and an overabundance of sticky-sweet gulab jamun all but wiped out his ready cash.
He next stopped at a Food Lion and hunted for anything that could be concocted into French cuisine, for which he had also acquired a taste. But while all the necessary ingredients were present, he really had no idea how to prepare a proper coq au vin. He resigned himself to buying a roaster chicken, some tea bags and a few more bags of Fritos, which tasted similar to the roasted corn he had wolfed down as a child, then as a teen, then as an adult.
He stopped at a Goodwill and used his credit card to buy a thin mattress, a thick blanket and a pillow.
He drove around his new neighborhood a little bit, investigating the streets, thinking about his new job, brooding on what Howie had told him about the Riggins family. There was a harsh separateness about these suburban houses that made the discreet death of an entire family all too plausible. Sought-for privacy incurred an unsought isolation. While most of the homes peppering the south shore were not screened off by thick skirts of trees and hedgerows, like those of Beach Court, the sense of inviolable territory was unmistakable—as was emphasized by the Neighborhood Watch signs that festooned nearly every block and conceivable entrance. Ari cooked up an inferred greeting for each door he passed: "Hello! How are you doing? Why are you here? What do you want? Welcome! Go away!"
He sat before the computer, staring at a floor plan of this very house, posted by the newspaper several days after the killings. Employing miniature body outlines similar to those used at crime scenes, it pinpointed the location of the bodies as they had been found by the police. Ari clicked on the image to enlarge it, then printed it out. Hefting the Fritos in the crook of his arm, he took up the two pages (main and upper floors--the basement wasn't included) and embarked on a more informed tour of his house.
The lead article did not speculate as to whom had been shot first, but logic would suggest that would be the chief protector of the household. Ari was culturally inclined to assume that would be the male. He went downstairs into the living room. After studying the printout, he stood next to a phantom easy chair, facing the ghost of a Christmas tree. He folded the printout, stuck it into his pocket, and munched on some corn chips. Each bite sent an inordinately loud echo through the room. Of course, there was no furniture or carpeting to absorb the sound--but it still didn't fit. The stairs leading up to the second floor were scarcely ten feet away. He shook his head at the ghost in the phantom chair.
"You didn't do your job," he admonished--although only a portion of his disgust was directed at Jerry Riggins. His original assumption was discarded within the same few minutes it had been formulated.
"Not even with a silencer," he murmured. In a confined space like this it would have made a loud and distinctive 'pop'.
He went upstairs to the master bedroom. Judging from the diagram, Mrs. Riggins had been sitting up in bed when she died, her legs over the side. The headboard was against the outside wall; the side of the bed was about a three feet from a window. Ari stared out at the river. Whistling Jupiters? Could Moria have mistaken the gunshot downstairs for a firecracker? It didn't seem feasible. The small, tree-dotted island was halfway to the north shore. On the other hand, coming out of a deep sleep, the shot could have seemed like part of a dream.
"Were you dreaming, Moria?" he asked, looking at the phantom bed. "Or were you deaf?" He stared hard at the invisible woman, then added, "Did you take a sleeping pill before going to bed?"
He stopped before each boy's room--rooms he had freely roamed the day before, but which had become (now that he had seen the diagram) tainted by history. This was the belly of the crime, and his stomach knotted painfully. He would study the rooms more closely, later. He had plenty of time.
Downstairs, he went into the kitchen and poked a wooden spoon through his soaking chick peas. Then he went to the back door, set off in a small alcove adjacent to the kitchen, across from the basement door. He stood outside on the small stoup. To the right the yard sloped down to the patio. To the left some boxwoods hid a central air unit and blocked the road from view. Howie's house was barely visible through the trees. Turning, he leaned in to study the frame. The wood was crisp, unmarked, obviously new. He closed the door and tapped it with his knuckles. Very solid. Of course, it too was new, but Ari thought the real estate people would have replaced the damaged door with one similar or identical to the old one. Again, the problem of noise. Breaking through here would have created a tremendous racket.
He tried to re-enter and found he had locked himself out. None of keys on his ring worked. He drew back a little, frowning at the door knob.
Probably a minor slip-up on the real estate agent's part. He had had the old keys hanging from his office pegboard, perhaps, and had simply forgotten to slip the new one onto the ring after the door was installed. Or....
Ari smiled. He went down to the patio and let himself in through the basement door.
Once again at the computer, he returned to the newspaper archives and pulled up a picture of the Riggins family hiking in the mountains. Hunched under backpacks, they were beaming at the camera as though the weight on their backs and the high trail they had just ascended (a section of the Appalachian Trail, the caption advised readers) were of no consequence to their good spirits. Jerry appeared to be of average height, slender but fit, glowing with health and optimism. Standing by his side was Moria, her grin so broad it practically cracked her cheekbones. Her short bangs were plastered by sweat to her forehead. Beneath them her eyes glowed brilliantly, almost ecstatically, as though she was a novitiate who had discovered the temple of Nature. Her olive T-shirt was pinched by the backpack straps and sagged at the front, exposing the sharp line of her collarbone. The boys, looking a little blown from their hike up the hill, stood at the forefront--displayed like trophies, each one held by the shoulders as though being thrust toward the lens. They had matching, child-sized backpacks. The eldest looked highly pleased, the youngest looked relieved--perhaps he had just been told that the hike was over and that they were now going home.
A little more browsing brought Ari to a photograph of a small ceremony. Mr. and Mrs. Riggins were receiving a plaque in recognition of their services and donations to a charity for the families of police officers who had fallen in the line of duty (their deaths referred to in the article as ‘End of Watch’). Behind them stood two flags. The American flag was known throughout the world, but the blue one next to it was more problematic, and in these non-innocent times a touch risqué. It’s seal bore the image of a woman in Roman costume, one breast bared. She was standing on a man’s neck, giving the defeated tyrant a perfect view up the Amazonian culottes. Ari concluded the flag must belong to the province...or was it state?...of Virginia.
The man presenting the award was nearly a head taller than Jerry Riggins--a full head taller than Moria. Huge. On the beefy side. Even before Ari read the caption, he knew it was a cop.
Detective Louis B. Carrington.
Moria was in the center, while Jerry seemed to be trying to edge himself out of the shot even as Carrington extended his hand. He was smiling, yet Jerry's wariness was painfully obvious. Very much out of place in a man being hailed for his civic virtue. Ari had seen that same kind of reluctant handshake many times before.
Jerry's wife, meanwhile, wore the familiar glow of the mountains, as though she had just clambered up a high peak--which, socially speaking, she had, at least according to the article. Ari focused on her shining eyes and gave a small shake of his head. He switched back to the detective, who had no trace of the world-weariness common to his breed. Perfectly comfortable, if a little too casual, with his stomach pooching beyond the perimeter of his single breasted blazer, his loose white shirt draping over the top of his belt.
With a grunt, Ari threw down his emptied bag of Fritos. It was natural to be curious about the fate of the Riggins family. He had done nothing different from what any new owner of a house whose previous occupants had been murdered would have done. But it was none of his business. He needed to allow his curiosity to subside.
If only there was something to do….
He checked his email. The inbox was empty. Not even spam in the junk file.
At least he could look at the news, although he noticed some of his favorite websites had been filtered out.
He sat back. The odor of slowly roasting chicken rose upstairs. He glanced at his watch and decided to give it another thirty minutes. Besides, he was filled up with corn chips.
His hands hovered over the mouse and keyboard. Idly, he moved the cursor up. The address for Jerry Riggins' website, which he had already visited once, dropped down from his browser. He clicked, and was soon looking at some of Jerry's paintings. Ari had never had much time for art. He had acquired a few pieces over the years, fully recognizing that he based his choices on decorative aptness rather than intrinsic merit. Jerry belonged to what Ari thought of as the 'smudge school'. No doubt there were connoisseurs who could explain the rationale behind them, but to Ari art that had to be explained, that was not-self evident, was no art at all. To spend years of higher learning to delve the profound meaning of a smudge was a waste of precious time and intellect. But perhaps he was being unfair. Were the paintings more vibrant when seen in person? More...comprehensible? Ari scrolled down to the list of Jerry's exhibits.
Several years' worth of art shows were listed, including a month-long show in December of the previous year at a university gallery. No doubt visitors had flocked to see the paintings while the autopsies were being performed.
Near the bottom Ari came across an exhibit that had begun a week ago, at Foxlight Gallery in an area of the city known as Shockhoe Bottom. Hadn't Howie said something about a sports center due to be built there? There was a small note under the announcement indicating that it had been posted August 9.
This was not the blogging section, where site visitors could add to the numerous fond memorials about the family. This was embedded on the main page. Someone had access to Jerry's website. Going to the menu, Ari clicked on About This Site and discovered that the webmaster was someone named Tina. She could be contacted at Tina.Press@moriasnotions.com.
He glanced at his watch and went downstairs to remove his chicken from the oven. It didn’t look like a success. Besides, stuffed with Fritos, his stomach rebelled at the idea of adding more, no matter how savory or otherwise. He placed the roasting pan in the refrigerator and went back up to the computer.
After a long pause, he typed 'Iceland' into the browser. He chose a tourist website and perused the sights. Iceland was a land of geysers, hot springs, waterfalls, glaciers, fjords. Very scenic.
He leaned back in his chair, his mind filling with sulfurous clouds and hallucinatory fumes. Out of the mist a face appeared. A lovely face, full of wisdom and understanding.
And then, as if twisted and torn by the acid in the air, the face mutated into a horrible mask of despair and hatred.
Ari sat up, closed down the computer, and looked at his watch.